


The price of His love

by TimonTomato



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Addiction, Alcoholism, Bible Quotes, Consensual Choking, Demon!Elias, Dom/sub, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, I guess it's dom/sub anyway, Kinky religious shit, Literal heresy, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of drugs, Peter suffers a lot, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, Simon Fairchild as your fav grandpa, Take me to church is a good song for that one, Violence, demon/priest AU, heathen sex rituals, is that even a thing, priest!peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23213176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimonTomato/pseuds/TimonTomato
Summary: Peter Lukas had never been a good priest. He did believe in God, he did pray. But his struggle with his own demons had left him with a bit of an alcohol problem. That night, a cold night that felt like winter had already fallen upon the world, Peter was drunk and close to passing out when somebody entered the other booth of the confessional. That person would be his end and his begining...
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 18
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I feel that I must make it clear: If you are looking for good Catholic content, TURN AROUND.  
> When I call that fic actual heresy, I'm not joking. There is no respect for any God in that fic. It's all just a very specific kink.  
> Oh and in this fic, Peter is a catholic priest.   
> I'm in no way an expert in the English Catholic Church. At this point I think entering a church will possibly harm me.  
> That said: Enjoy!

Night was slowly creeping its way into the world. It was to be a cold night, winter was to be merciless that year. 

Darkness slowly swallowed the few rays of light that still filtered inside the church, until it was only lit by those few candles lit during the previous mass, or by passing visitors. They had a lot of these tourist types here- The church was an old one, even if it was small. The stained glass of the windows had been restored so many times and the stones and wood replaced entirely, yet they still praised the building’s age. Peter doubted anything was left of the original building beside the cold, uneven stones of the floor. And even it had been so eroded by time that it had had to be replaced in some spots. 

It was still a beautiful place, appropriate to be called the house of God, it had that quaint  little charm about it too, most old rural churches had that in common.

That must have been why so many visitors came by. Though they never interacted with  Peter much. Sometimes a couple of young people would ask him about the history of the place or about his congregation. He preferred to avoid these conversations.  He rarely left them with a good impression.

So all they did was come in, look around, mouths gaping at the architecture, at some of the artwork or at the stained glass , lit a candle , and left. 

Each of  these symbolised a prayer. For a departed soul, for a suffering one , for a loved one that had strayed too far from the virtuous path laid  before them by God. It was fitting that once night had fallen, they became the only source of light in the cold dark. Though there was something ominous about the way their flames cast shadows inside the empty church,  on the empty pews. 

Peter  was sitting in the confessional. He had been there for hours , it seemed. He was in almost complete darkness now. He considered getting up to turn on the lights inside his church, but the world around him was  spinning . He wasn't sure he could get up without collapsing. So he sat there in contemplation, an empty bottle at his feet.

Oh, he knew what kind of picture he made. A drunk priest, an alcoholic of barely forty years of age, hidden away in the shadow of his confessional to drink himself in a stupor. Though, when he thought about it, the blond, unkempt and whitening hair and beard he had made him look less like a priest and more like a tramp. 

He was acutely aware of how pathetic he looked. How sad that picture was . But  he did it anyway. 

At least, here in the confessional, he could pray for forgiveness  as he drank,  away from prying eyes . The  only  judgement he was  submitted to , being that  o f his beloved God.

‘Beloved.’ An interesting thought. Peter wanted to take another swing of cheap wine- But it was empty, and no amount of prayer would make it full again.  He grunted.  He really needed to get o f f his arse.

Peter  closed his eyes;  he tried to clear his mind, to not focus too much on the spinning darkness around him, or on his rising nausea. He was starting to enjoy the blissful silence when h e heard the old , heavy door of the church creak open . Peter  opened his eyes with a groan and he  saw the light falter  outside the confessional  as the wind blew inside, but they  weren't blown. Light resisted. Hallelujah.

Footsteps  followed . S low, unhurried footsteps, that echoed in the cold stone church. They seemed to be coming  towards the con fessional.  Peter braced himself as the door of other booth opened and someone stepped inside.  They sat down,  the wood creaked under their weight. 

Peter  immediately noticed the strong scent of perfume, something strong, enticing , that left him somewhat lightheaded .  The person on the other side didn't speak . Peter didn't say a word either. He hoped that, maybe, the silent treatment would discourage whoever was on the other side from speaking. 

‘I'm sorry  F ather, I'm not sure what I should do or say.’ It was a man's voice. He sounded much younger than  Peter was used to. His congregation was a small one, and most of the  people who came to church or confessed regularly were old, lonely people trying to make amends to their God before the end.  Still, a few of the younger people around the village still came to church  to confess,  being part of very religious families meant they inevitably  came back to Church  in difficult times. 

Peter  wondered then, why he was there. He didn't remember the voice, and he  knew the names and faces of most members of his flock by now . A fter years of service  i n that  small, forsaken village , new faces and voices stood out like a sore thumb. 

‘ Have you never confessed before, my child?’ Peter asked. It took him a lot of energy to  articulate properly,  to hide the  slurring typical of an excess of liquor .

‘ I fear not.  I t ’ s the first of my sins.’

Peter hummed. ‘The repeat after me :  My God, I am heartily  s orry for having offended you and I detest all of my sins , because I dread the loss of Heaven and the  pains of  h ell .’

The man dutifully repeated. Though his tone didn't sound quite as solemn as it should have been. Peter continued anyway. 

‘ But most of all because I have offended you , my God, who  are all good and deserving of all my love.’

The man repeated after Peter, his voice sounded mocking when he said the word  _ love. _ It might have just been a trick of the mind- Alcohol tended to mess with your perception. Or maybe it was just a lost soul, fallen out of his Faith.  Peter didn't point it out. He wasn't there to judge people's relationship to their faith.  His wasn't exactly a model to begin with.

‘ I firmly resolve  with the help of your  g race , to confess my sins , to do penance , and to amend my life. Amen.’

He spoke the last words in turn.  Peter nodded to himself. Now that was out of the way. He was surprised he even remembered  it, despite struggling to remember his own name. 

‘Now confess your sins, my child.’ Peter said. He heard the wood of the seat on the other side creak as the man shifted his  weight. Everything was so old here. So worn. 

‘I have had  _ obscene _ thoughts; Father.’ He started. Peter didn't hear any shame or hesitation in his voice. It was a coldly stated fact.

‘What sort of thoughts, my Child? Lay them before God so you may be  forgiven.’ Peter recited. It was the force of habit. He  was used to people coming to confess their rather... colourful fantasies here.  Some were just plain weird, others quite frankly criminal. He was numb to it all now , and the alcohol helped. Maybe that was partly why he had started to drink in the first place, but he couldn't remember .  There was a  pause. T he howl of the cold winter wind  was the only thing that broke the perfect silence of the night . Darkness encroached further. 

‘I fantasize about a man' He said. Peter tensed up.  ‘There isn't a waking moment  where I don't think about what he would look like, stripped and laid before me .  I think about the sounds he would make, about the taste of his skin , about the  feeling of it against my own .’

Peter shifted  his legs  uncomfortably.  He  accidentally toppled the bottle at his feet, which fell to the ground with a loud  _ cl _ _ i _ _ nk  _ which echoed loudly throughout the empty church.  The man didn't seem to care much about it. He simply  went on with his detailed description.  ‘And when I sleep, I dream of his face between my  thighs .  I dream that  He takes me inside his mouth and I come undone. I dream  of being inside him as he cries out my name and confesses his love.  That is when I am not dreaming that he is the one inside me, filling me up with his warmth . I dream of him worshipping me like I'm his God ; kneeling before me, waiting for a taste of my flesh and blood.’

Peter felt his blood rush to his face. He could hear his own heartbeat, ringing in his ears. It was so vivid. Every word summoned a sea of images, obscene and raw, and in each of them  _ he _ was the  protagonist . He inhaled sharply, trying to banish the images from his mind, to replace them with prayers and passages of the holy scriptures. But the prayers died halfway through; and he couldn't remember any of the words he had read over and over for the most part of his life. His next words were slurred and stammered through the mess of his dazed mind. ‘These thoughts- Do you... Have you had them for a, ah, a long time?’

‘ I have had them for  _ Months _ ,  _ Father _ .’ The man sounded out of breath when he spoke, like  he was reaching the limit of his composure. Peter gulped audibly. He wondered if the man heard.

‘ Wh y... Why  did you come now then .? H ave you... Acted on them?’ Peter didn't sound as  detached as he should have been.

‘Because I have started to act on them now.  I have been attending mass with these thoughts in mind, and when I am alone, I remember his  voice reciting the Holy scriptures and I touch myself at the memories. ’ 

Peter's heartbeat  was so loud now, he was sure that the man could somehow hear it . He could feel it hammer against his chest , as if  it was  trying to  escape.  His whole body  was ablaze , and the growing strain  in his trousers made him painfully aware of his own weakness once more. ‘ Do you l u st  for a man of the cloth?’ Peter managed. 

‘Yes, Father. I want  his love and his touch as much as I want God's  forgiveness.’ That last part didn't sound right. Peter swallowed hard. ‘God will forgive you , my Child . Recite  twenty our Father and  pray for his forgiveness, that he may free you from temptation. For now let us pray together.’

_ Our  _ _ F _ _ ather _ _ , who art in  _ _ h _ _ eaven _ _ , _

_ Hallowed be thy  _ _ N _ _ ame, _

_ Thy kingdom come _ _ , _

_ Thy will be done, _

_ On  _ _ e _ _ arth as it is in heaven _ _. _

_ Give  _ _ us this day our daily bread _ _. _

_ And forgive us our trespasses _ _ , _

_ As we forgive those who trespass against us. _

_ And lead us not into temptation _ _ ,  _

_ But deliver us from  _ _ e _ _ vil _ _. _

_ For  _ _ thine is the Kingdom, _

_ And the power, and the glory _ _ , _

_ Forever and Ever. _

_ Amen. _

The words that Peter recited were as much for himself as for the poor soul on the other side of the confessional.  Perhaps more for himself, even, as  He had noticed that the man didn't pray with him at all- But he couldn't care less.  At this point,  He was exhausted, feeling sick and dizzy from the alcohol and from his own  sinful thoughts.  He wanted out of there, he wanted that man to leave so he could finally clear his mind and just  _ breathe.  _ It felt like he had been holding his breath far too long . E ver since that man had started to speak.

‘Thank you; Father. I do hope you will keep me in your prayers.’ The man said. Peter nodded- It was ridiculous, of course, as the man couldn't see him. But the lack of answer didn't seem to bother him, as soon the  confessional door opened . Then the sound  of footsteps , filled the hollow space around  Peter once more, but that time they were moving away. Then  silence. At last; he was alone. Or rather, as alone as he would ever be in his church.

He let out a relieved sigh. It was completely dark now, save from a faint rain of candle light pe e king through the confessional door . Peter closed his eyes for a moment,  mentally preparing himself for the effort. After a few seconds like that, he finally  picked up the empty bottle, and  carefully rose to his  feet. 

Standing made him sick. The world was spinning,  and as he made his way  unsteadily toward s  the  light  switch- on the wall next to the  altar, which wasn’t that far away but felt like it- he swore that he saw the shadows sway over the pews, like figures rising for a prayer. 

He was too dizzy to think too much about it, but he now felt the strangest hint of apprehension- Like something was about to happen. He put down the bottle on the  altar and finally turned the lights on. The shadows didn't quite disappear, of course. Darkness and light coexisted in all things. They merely changed, now colder, more artificial , j ust like the lights were. Outside the wind howled,  occasionally  hitting  hard on  the stained glass windows . They were broken in places; and produced the most peculiar sound when that happened- l ike an unholy, far away song or an anguished scream .  Peter couldn't get rid of the fear that gripped him. He reached for his rosary, clutching it  and murmuring a prayer.

That didn't reassure him. But he pretended it did, and started cleaning up the altar . He closed the bible, put the mass wine- still intact- inside under lock and key. He was starting to feel better though. It felt like the alcohol was slowly clearing from his mind.  A small mercy, he thought. But with clarity returned the memories , the thoughts and the shame.

That man in the confessional, the things he had said had been utterly blasphemous. Desire and lust , Peter was accustomed to- They counted among his own sins. But what he had described- To be worshiped like God,  to  make one of His servants stray from his vows  and turn to heresy- It was  _ wrong _ . The kind of wrong that  made Peter shiver . He had been unable to think back then. A mere twenty repetition of Our Father couldn't possibly account for the  depth of that sin.  Peter felt that he had failed his task . But the worst part was why he had failed. The alcohol, of course, was part of it. But that shame; the excess, he was used to. Back there- What held him back from his duties was something different. Something far worse.

The thoughts of committing such Blasphemy  had indeed made him shiver .  But that shiver hadn’t been the creeping chill of horror.  Or the  crawling, sickening  spasm of disgust. No. 

It had been the hot,  intoxicating shiver of  desire.

And that horrified and disgusted him more than anything else. So after he was done cleaning; he knelt in front of the cross, and he prayed for forgiveness. He prayed to be delivered from his own mortal weakness.  To be freed of the need for physical  connections, or to at least  b e able to  stand strong when such thoughts  pervaded his mind.

Peter  prayed for a long time. When he got up again from the harsh, cold stone floor, his knees hurt.  The floor was too damaged to be comfortable .  He saw  that pain and discomfort as part of his  penitence . He was done for the day, so he went to turn off the lights and leave. 

When he turned around however \-  t here in the creeping darkness \-  he saw a figure.  It slowly stepped towards him, and Peter recognised  the sound of these footsteps like he had heard them every single day before that one.

Stepping into the dim light of the candles, was a man. He was certainly a bit younger than Peter himself; and wore a long, black coat- And seemingly little else. There was very little holding it in place too, it was just held together by a tie, loosely fastened around the waist. His short brown hair was neatly kept, despite the violent wind outside. He had a handsome face, the kind that made Peter wish he hadn't taken the vows in his weakest moments. The shape of his body was just as attractive, a lithe elegant form- And when he moved, his motions were so smooth and calculated – It almost seemed like he was dancing around the space. It was mesmerizing.

But out of all his fascinating features, hi s eyes stood out the m ost. They were t he colour of p ol ished jade . A n odd colour,  that felt artificial . Even more so because of how _ bright _ __ they shone in the near complete darkness.

The man stepped closer. He was smiling; a casual, yet on his face,  _ eerie _ smile. Peter froze. He sta red at hi m,  absorbed the sight of him, imprinting it in his mind. It was t he man  from the confessional.  Peter knew it. And his heart got carried away again, beating hard and fast in his chest, hitting hard against his ribs ; pounding in his e ars.  Peter wanted to say something; but his mouth was dry.  Instead h e clenched  the rosary in his hand. 

‘Are you leaving already, Father?’ The man spoke. His voice echoed inside of the church; and inside Peter's head- inside his soul.  It was such a warm,  enticing voice . The man took Another step closer. And another. Peter could smell that strong scent on him again . That perfume. Like ... exotic flowers and  something hot . T he  scent of the  air on a scorching summer day. 

‘It's late.’ Peter managed to answer. He did his best to maintain his composure, beside his flushed face and unsteady breath.

‘Is it? Have I been gone for so long?’ The man mused. He dismissed the thought just as fast.  ‘Maybe it's for the best.’

He stepped even closer , and stopped right in front of Peter. He was shorter- Not by much. He  was still smiling. From up close, Peter realised just how handsome, how utterly beautiful that man was.  How  _ impossibly _ _ perfect _ he looked.  He inhaled sharply when the man put his hand on his chest.  His heart  pounded harder- Almost like it was reaching for the man's hand, craving his touch.

‘You were of so much help earlier, Father.’ He said , gazing into Peter's eyes . ‘But I don't think God wants to forgive me.’ 

‘God forgives  to anyone  who ask s for his forgiveness. ’ Peter said. His voice quivered as the words came out. He  hoped they were true- for  his own sake \- As he had the strongest  impression that whoever that man was; he had no interest in being forgiven by any God. 

The man chuckled. ‘Then there may be hope yet.’ Then with a sly look he removed his hand from Peter's chest. ‘I want to thank you for  _ trying _ Father, your devotion... It is truly remarkable. One of a kind, indeed.’ As he said that, he loosened the tie that held his coat closed. 

Peter stared at  the man's hands, he watched the  black fabric parting, revealing soft, white skin underneath. He heard a sound  akin to a whimper, and realised too late that he was the one who had made it. The man's hands moved up,  and he slowly unrevealed more skin as he removed the coat . It  slid off his shoulders , only stopping at his elbows . ‘I would very much like to make it  _ mine _ .’ The man said, dropping his arms to his sides.

The coat fell unceremoniously onto the floor , and the man stood there, centimetres away from Peter, entirely naked.

Peter was  unable to move, or to react in any way. His eyes were fixed upon the naked  body of the man before him, so close he could feel  his warmth . He felt dizzy again, like the alcohol was kicking back in. 

The man  gently touched Peter's cheek, still smiling, his impossibly bright eyes  bored into Peter .  He was like Paralysed, torn between  pushing that  cursed man away , kicking him out of his church , and giving in into that burning, primal desire to touch and be touched.  A desire he had been repressing so hard and so well throughout all these  years. A desire t hat he thought he had managed to reign in, but was now painfully  real ising how much it still  ruled  him. 

Much like  a man caught in a crossfire- Or pulled into two direction at once with equal force- Peter simply did  _ nothing _ .  He waited for the death blow, for the ripping of flesh and muscle.  It was impossible to choose.  And that fact itself was too hard to  confront. The choice should have been easy for one of God's servants.

But Peter had always been weak. He had always run away from his responsibilities the moment he found himself having to choose between his Faith and his needs. Almost Every single time in the past; he had made the deliberate choice of sin. So for once, he wouldn't make that choice. He would let himself be led like a puppet by whoever's hand was the strongest. And it certainly was not his own.

Warm lips  brushed against  his own,  and it felt  _ almost  _ chaste , if it wasn't for the hand crawling over his chest possessively.  ‘Please-' Peter breathed. Please what?  _ Stop _ ?  _ More _ ? He didn't know. The man chuckled.  ‘Such a pretty , precious thing.’

His lips met Peter's again,  that time  in a rough , harsh ,  _ hungry _ kiss.

It was then that Peter felt the last bit of resolve he had slip from his grip. He couldn't resist _ him _ . Just like he could never stay away long from the bottle when it sat  _ right there _ , just within reach . He was well aware that he was  straying from the righteous path , even more than usual. He was Breaking his vows, his promise to God to be His, in body and in mind. But he was just a man . And he was weak .  So h e would beg  Him  for forgiveness later, as he  had  always  done . And perhaps ,  if he prayed fervently enough; he would feel that resolve and strength  God had once bestowed upon him \- And he wouldn't step away from the light again.

His rosary fell onto the  ground, and he barely realised it. He held onto that man with more fervour than he had held onto it.  His hands traced his naked body,  pulling him close against his body, not caring about dirtying his cassock. 

_

Peter didn't quite remember how he got home. He must have walked there. He couldn't have drove there for sure. He wasn't in a state to do so without crashing his car. He wasn't in a state to do anything at all, after tonight.

It was unreal. 

The things they did, right there in the Church; on the altar in front of  Jesus Christ agonising on his cross ; dying for humanity's sin-  Peter could never forget. No matter how much he drank, prayed, no matter how much time passed , he just knew he wouldn't be able to forget it. That sinful night would cling to him  until he finally took his last breath.

The shame  he felt from having betrayed  God and committed the sin of flesh right on the altar, for  having pronounced His name as he  fucked  a mere stranger in His house ,  in front of the cross,  wouldn't leave him either. 

Yet, from deep inside  his  mind, he heard that sultry,  familiar voice that reminded him how  _ good  _ it  had been. How  _ blissful _ he had felt  abandoning himself  to the pleasures flesh .  Why did it have to be shameful? After all,  wasn't it God who had made it possible for humans to seek pleasure with one another ? Why would he  grant them such a pleasant gift, only to deny it to them?

He did his best to ignore it. He knew those arguments to well. And he knew the answer to them. It was a test. Yet another obstacle meant to test Peter's faith. He had failed God in his acts, but he refused to fail Him in his thoughts as well. So he prayed until his muscles were sore. Then he drank to drown out the memories, until he passed out on his bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That one's quite short and relatively harmless.  
> Enjoy, for it will not last.

Peter woke up with the worst headache he had had in a very long time. His head was throbbing, and the rays of light filtering through the curtain felt like sharp glass cutting into his eyeballs and brain . R epeatedly. It was late ; h e didn’t need to look at his clock to know he had overslept far beyond what was reasonable. He had definitely missed morning mass. But at that moment, it was the l e ast of his concerns. The most pressing matter was to take care of that vicious migraine. He crawled out of bed, and shivered when his foot touched the cold floor. He grimaced, gathered his courage and stood up. He immediately felt dizzy, and nausea washed over him. He barely made it in time to the bathroom to throw up. 

He spent minutes there, on the ground, his head over the toilet. Every time he thought it had finally passed, he would be hit with a new wave of nausea to hit him, and then he would retch again.

He felt miserable.

It did pass eventually, once he had nothing left in him to throw up, and not enough strength to do even that. His head was still killing him. So he washed his mouth and swallowed a pain killer, praying God that it would do its job fast. He still had to go to church today, as all days. He didn’t want people to ask too many questions, which would certainly happen if he took a whole day off. At least there had been nothing major planned today. No weddings, burials or other ceremony. Thank God for small mercies, right?

It did occur to him that he was particularly  _ moody _ today, even for a hangover day. He couldn't pinpoint what was bothering him exactly. He figured that it was just one of those days, and decided to have a shower to get rid of that awful smell that now clung to him.

When he stepped into the shower- He realised that he had very little memory of what had happened last night. He tried to piece it back together as he let warm water flow over his body. He was starting to feel better, less sick and now he was almost relaxed enough that he thought about sleeping right there, surrounded by that heat.  Peter closed his eyes, reviewing his memories from the previous day, before his blackout. He remembered the mass. He remembered those very annoying tourists and their questions. He remembered drinking, and then feeling too drunk to do anything, so he had just sat in his confessional with a bottle of cheap wine, and he had waited for time to pass until he could go home. Was that all? He couldn’t remember anything except those … dreams. Peter wasn’t immune to the occasional dirty dream, and as long as he didn’t act on it, he thought that God couldn’t care less. No one could control their dreams. 

But the one he had had the previous night had felt... So vivid. Like-

Memories.

Peter froze. Suddenly the water felt much, much colder than it should have been. The clouds lifted from his mind and he remembered. He stopped the water, and stumbled out of the shower. He was feeling dizzy, like the floor was drawing him in. 

It hadn’t been a dream. Had it? 

He swallowed hard, wrapped a towel around his waist and hurried to the bedroom, looking for his clothes. He remembered it too visibly now, and he knew that if it had been real, then there would be... proof. 

But he found nothing. Aside from a few stains of wine on his cassock- There was no sign of tearing or... any other type of stains. He should have been relieved. But he didn’t. It hadn’t been a dream. Now he was sure of it. He remembered the confession in painful details. He remembered the sound of the howling wind and the flickering candles. He remembered feeling the touch of that man on his skin. And he hadn’t been asleep. He was sure of it.

Just as he thought that, he felt a warm breath against his ear. The hair on his nape stood on end as a shiver spread throughout his whole body. And then he was surrounded by that  _ divine _ smell... He remembered it all in such details. _ ‘It was so freeing, wasn’t it, Peter?’  _ His voice. Peter was suddenly broken from his trance. He snapped his head around- But there was nothing. The smell was gone, the warm breath on his skin too. Was he finally losing his grip on reality?

Peter did go to church that day. Though he was troubled by his memories. Or maybe dreams? He was lost in thoughts, staring blankly at the pages of the bible opened on the altar. He had been staring at that page for a long time. He didn’t remember opening it. He wasn’t sure what it even said. 

‘Father Lukas?’ 

Peter looked up. A middle-aged woman stood there; her brow furrowed in concern. She didn’t have very remarkable features, all things considered. But she wore fancy clothes and dark red glasses were mounted on her nose. Peter blinked. It took him some time to realise he was being spoken to. Even longer to realise who it was. It was the local doctor, Margaret  Tellison . She often came to  church to light a candle for her father, and sometimes she attended mass, although only on occasion, and she was then accompanied by her elderly mother. Peter was pretty much neutral about her, as he was with most of the people he met, aside from a few he utterly despised for their terrible habit of striking up conversations that lasted far too long. The good doctor wasn’t one of these people, so although Peter wasn’t exactly in the mood for a chat with anyone, he figured that she had at least something relevant to say. ‘Ah- Hello.’ Peter cleared his throat. ‘Good to see you today, Doctor  Tellison .’

‘It’s good to see you as well.’ She eyed him doubtfully as she said that. ‘I’m sadly not here to make conversation.’ Peter hummed, resisting the impulse to sigh in relief. ‘Bad news?’ He asked. The doctor nodded sadly, fiddling with the hem of her coat.

‘I’m afraid so. My father doesn’t have much time left. He wants you to deliver the last sacraments before- before he passes.’ Her voice broke at the end, but she did her best to keep her formal composure. Something about her was rather off-putting, though at that moment, Peter didn’t think much of it. Grief changed people. And he had seen more than one grieving person act odd or irrationally in his time officiating burials. Not in Peter’s family though. It had always been much more... rehearsed. 

‘I see. I’m- Sorry. When do you want me to come by?’ Peter didn’t sound overly sorry. He knew that well. But he just didn’t have it in him to fake it. Truth was, he had other things in mind. He felt guilty for thinking that, but he had never even met  Mr.Tellison in person. He never came to church, hardly left the house outside of his working hours. Could anyone really expect him to feel sad about every single death in that village?

‘The sooner the better. Is there... A specific time to do that? I don’t know. ‘ 

‘I can come by tonight, or tomorrow.’ Peter said. He wanted to be done with that conversation now. His migraine was coming back, and he doubted he could stay polite for much longer if his head felt like it was being stabbed with tiny, vicious needles.

‘Tomorrow night, then.’ She paused, considering her next words, without a doubt. ‘I mean no offense, Father, but you don’t look too well today. Are you feeling ill?’

Peter let out a small laugh. ‘No offense taken. I just-’ He blanked there, trying to come up with a good excuse. ‘I just have a bit of a headache. I’m sure it’ll be gone after a good night of rest.’

‘Hangover?’

Peter’s eyes went wide. He froze in place, feeling the blood drain from his face. How did she know? Had she seen something?  _ What did she see? _

She smiled. But whether it was meant to be reassuring or threatening was unclear. Peter couldn’t fathom that she would mention that just out of the blue, without any ulterior motives. 

‘Don’t worry, your- “secret” is safe with me. I’m simply worried, it’s my job as your doctor to worry about your health.’ 

‘How-’

‘I saw you going home last night. You could barely stand on your feet. I can’t say if anyone else so you, but- You were in quite a state.’

Peter exhaled shakily. He placed his hand over the bible before him, looking for its comfort. His mouth was suddenly dry, and his thoughts were spinning out of control. That could be the end of his reputation. The end of his career. The end of his  _ life. _ ‘Did you... See anything?’

She tilted her head. She looked about as curious as she was worried. ‘You really don’t look well. Did something happen?’

Peter hesitated. He couldn’t tell her anything. If he had to confess to anyone, it would be to another member of the clergy he trusted enough to admit what had happened. But he needed to be sure of what she had seen. He needed to know if he had really fallen so far as to have either broken his vows or utterly lost his mind. ‘Was I alone?’

The question seemed to surprise the Doctor. She furrowed her brow, and her eyes narrowed. ‘I think you were. I didn’t see anybody, at least. I have to say, I was quite in a hurry. Are you in trouble, Father Lukas?’

Peter shook his head. ‘It’s fine. I must have drunk too much.’ 

She hummed. ‘Alcohol messes with the mind and senses. Which is why you shouldn’t overindulge, Father. It could end badly for you.’

Peter nodded, but he didn’t answer, he looked down at words before him, open at the page of one of his favourite verses. 

_ “No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your strength, but with the temptation will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.”  _

The idea that for each temptation that he laid before Peter, God also laid a way out, comforted him immensely. Perhaps that was what it was. A wake-up call. A way out of the misery he had trapped himself in when he had first started drinking. Doctor  Tellison excused herself, and left. Peter didn’t even acknowledge her departure. He doubted she would even care, and he was too lost in thoughts to care, either. He ran his fingers along the old, yellowed pages of the Holy book, and for a moment he felt at peace. A glimpse of what he had once felt when he read that book, of the resolve that had slowly eroded over time, leaving him empty and tired.

Maybe he could change that. If he had had those dreadful visions because of his excess, then cutting that excess was the solution. He could do it. A necessary sacrifice to ensure that whatever that vision had been, it never occurred again. It had felt too real. When he thought about it, he could still feel the warmth of that man’s skin... His intoxicating scent. Memories washed over him, memories of flesh caressing flesh, of profane words whispered in his ear. 

Peter covered his mouth to muffle an anguished whimper from escaping his lips. Why had that vision felt so real? Why did it have to haunt him still? Why did it make him  _ feel  _ that way?

There, staring at his bible, standing in the light of his church, in the peaceful quite of the late afternoon, Peter resolved that whatever _ that _ had been, it wouldn’t happen again. If he wasn’t going to quit- He could at least try to not drink himself into a stupor on his own every other day. 

No. That simply wouldn’t be enough. If he drank even just a glass, took just a sip, he knew he would just be unable to resist. He would just end up finding excuses to drink more, until he was too inebriated to care about drinking yet another glass to finish what he had started. He had to stop. Maybe he should ask help from his doctor, even if that thought didn’t overjoy him.


	3. Chapter 3

A whole week passed. Then another. Then a month. A whole month spent without drinking a single drop of alcohol. Peter had ended up asking Doctor Tellison for her help. There was too much at stake to botch it. Though he hadn't told her that. He never mentioned his visons, he didn’t need too, in fact. She had simply made an exhaustive list of symptoms of withdrawal, given him a prescription for a bunch of meds he would need, and told him to keep her updated. 

Needless to say, the first days had been hell. Peter would have sincerely killed for a drop of wine, or scotch, beer, anything. He had been all alone with his thoughts- He still was- And that was the exact reason he had started drinking in the first place. How ironic that he had only been able to remember it at that time. It was a good thing that he had been alone, retrospectively. Because he had been so angry. Furious at everyone and everything. He had broken far too many things. And then he had cried quite a bit too, he wasn’t ashamed of that. Of course, there was the physical toll on his body too. He still felt all of that, though there were days it was more bearable than others. The mood swings, the fatigue and the sickness. 

Peter had held on despite it all. Because it had worked. The memories of those... visions were much less vivid now, they felt less real, at last. He felt nothing but shame and disgust when his thoughts wandered to them. And most important of all- He hadn’t seen that man since. Or heard him. He had focused all of his energy into his church duties, his prayers- He was making penitence, seeking for the forgiveness of a God he felt he had betrayed through his thoughts and his actions. Having a single-minded purpose was of a great help, coincidentally. He had a goal. Something to follow, to work towards achieving. It had been a long time since he had felt that. 

Of Course, Peter still wasn’t nearly as agreeable or sociable as his career required him to be. That was just how he had always been, and he had no reason to change that. He had never needed anyone in his life- That was why he had taken that path in the first place. It allowed for a certain distance between himself and the rest of the world. And it brought him closer to something higher than himself, than any mortals. Some being to follow, a being in whose hands he could place his fate and his life. That’s all he had ever needed, really. 

It was a beautiful, sunny day. Sunlight cast colours across the pews of those gathered in prayer- It was a sad occasion, a burial. But Peter couldn’t help but feel light-hearted. Something about the surprising presence of the sun perhaps, that made the day quite mild for a December morning. Or perhaps it was that he had simply woken up feeling less like death than he usually did. 

He didn’t smile, of course. He remained perfectly solemn as he read the passages selected by the family aloud, or when he sanctified the coffin, and accompanied it to the graveyard behind the church. He observed in silence as the mourners one by one said their last goodbyes to the deceased, and the coffin was lowered with difficulty into the earth of the small, crowded local cemetery. All that time, all he could think about was how quiet it was out there, despite being outside. He knew the place well. Peter had never been afraid of the dead. They were as unthreatening as could be. If anything, the living were the ones he watched out for when walking the grounds of a graveyard. 

The family thanked him profusely. They shook his hand, tears in their eyes. They told him about how much the deceased would have appreciated his reading. He didn’t really care for it. But in a way, he was glad if it had brought them some peace. As he shook hands with a crying old man, his eyes were drawn to a figure at the back of the crowd. Staring. He was wearing a fancy black coat, and a balck suit, just like the rest of the crowd, and in many ways, he didn’t stand out at all from it, if it wasn’t for the way his eyes were fixed on Peter. 

It was _him._

Peter recognised him as soon as he saw him. His presence was unmistakeable. He smiled, of course he did. That serene, satisfied smile that Peter had seen in all his dreams and nightmares for the past month. The weeping old man was finally taken away by some apologetic family members. Peter didn’t look at them. He muttered a few polite words to anyone who came to greet him, but his entire focus was on that man. He followed the procession of mourners out of the graveyard, right past Peter himself. A few more people passed in front of him before the Man was finally at Peter’s level. He extended his hand. Unlike most of the mourners, he wasn’t wearing gloves. It was still cold out there, and the sun couldn’t change that. It was winter, after all. 

Peter shook his hand; it was almost a reflex. The man’s hand was warm. Almost _hot_ in spite of the cold. It was a pleasant, familiar warmth. So much that Peter was reluctant to let go. Then the bells of the church rang, and he snapped out of it. He felt his face heat up and quickly dropped his hand. The man chuckled. ‘A fine service, as always, Father Lukas.’ Peter mumbled an affirmation and hurried back to the church. 

How could it be. 

As Peter stepped inside his church, he felt a semblance of safety. A few people were still inside, certainly some of the mourners who had decided to stay and pray, or to at least light a candle. For the first time in his life, he was glad for the presence of other people around him. He picked up his Bible and fled to the small office at the back of the church, where he removed his unpractical garb, trading them for the comfort of simple black pants and a sweater of the same colour. Unoriginal, perhaps, but he wasn’t looking to make a fashion statement. He did keep the collar though, as he was still technically at work, despite the short respite he was now awarded. Though idleness wasn’t a friend of his, these days. Too many intrusive thoughts came to him when he found himself with too much time on his hands and too little to do. And so, he used that opportunity to review the selected texts for the mass later that day. Something about loving your neighbour, with the recent... _hostility_ towards certain communities. 

Peter struggled to remain focused on the task at hand. His mind kept going back to that cursed man, back in the graveyard. He couldn’t tell if anyone had saw him other than him- But that handshake they had shared couldn’t have been more real. And Peter wasn’t under the influence of alcohol, or drugs. The strongest medicine he had taken in the morning was a painkiller for a nasty headache. Nothing that could justify hallucinations. 

He refused to even consider that he could be real. No matter how real it felt. Maybe he was just developing some form of mental illness. Maybe it was something wrong with his brain. Anything. _It just couldn't be real._

He really needed a drink. But he resisted. He prayed. He worked. 

When time for the mass finally came, Peter donned his priest garbs once more. He took his bible and his notes, muttered a quick prayer, and stepped out of the room. He put down his notes and bible, then scanned the room warily. He saw the usual people. They weren't that many. Twenty perhaps. The number didn't matter. Because they could have been a hundred that Peter would still have been able to spot _him_ in the crowd. Standing out of that sea of boring, common faces, smiling, watching. Peter felt nervous. But he swallowed back his anxiety and moved ahead with the mass. 

It was about as easy as Peter had expected. He did as he always did. The reading. Some group prayers. But through all of it, his mind couldn't help but be somewhere else, focused on that odd man that he saw sitting at the very back. The mass ended up being quite long. Or at least it felt like it was a long time. Peter hadn't exactly checked his watch to check. 

A few of the people came to thank him, usual trivialities were exchanged, until one by one they deserted the church, until Peter was left alone. 

Not _exactly_ alone, however. 

The man was still there, watching from his seat at the back with a grin. The silence between them was deafening. The man finally rose to his feet and started to clap as he walked towards Peter. 

‘Good work, Father Lukas. It was a very convincing show.’ He stopped right in front of Peter. Just like he had that one night before- 

‘Stay away.’ Peter warned, stepping back before he couldn't move anymore, before that man could pull any of his tricks -if he was real. or before his brain had decided to betray him. 

The man, surprisingly, stopped. He raised an eyebrow. ‘What's wrong, Father Lukas?’ he asked in that poisonous, bewitching voice of his. 

‘ _You_ _are_ _.’_ Peter said. He was angry, he was afraid, he was desperate. Just when he had finally found peace- Just when he had finally thought that he could go on- It all shattered before his eyes. And now he didn't know what to do. Should he flee? But wasn't it his duty to stand strong in the face of adversity? To chase away the demons- be it his own or those of another person trying to taint him. 

The man looked _hurt_ . Like Peter had just broken his heart with these mere two words. ‘Oh, _Peter.’_ He said, in a saddened tone. Peter winced upon hearing him call him by his given name. ‘I'm not the one you should be pushing away. I only want the best for you.’ The man said. Peter didn't believe a word of it, of course. Ever since that man had appeared in his life- The mere memory of him had caused him pain beyond comprehension. 

‘You... made me do these things.’ Peter accused. ‘I only wanted to be alone. And you had to come and do that.’ 

The man nodded compassionately, then he reached for Peter's hand, the one that rested on the open Bible. It was so warm. Peter inhaled sharply. ‘I know how you feel, Peter. But _I_ didn't do anything, remember? You were the one who wanted it. You held me. You fucked me. And it was good, wasn't it? You enjoyed it so much.’ 

Peter shook his head. No. He wasn’t the one who had started all of that. It wasn't him. ‘You did something to me-' 

The man laughed, like he had just heard the funniest joke in the world. ‘I didn't do anything. It was all you. The alcohol, the desire, the dreams...’ He grinned. 

Peter just shook his head. ‘No. I- It isn't.’ He clenched his fist. He felt anger well up inside of him. He was angry after that man, for tormenting him so. What did he gain from pointing out his sins, his weakness at his face? 

But more of all, he was angry at himself. He had been too weak to resist temptation, and then too weak to admit that it had been his own failing. Thinking he could make up for it when he denies it so fervently. For hoping that things would finally be getting better. ‘My God- I'm sorry.’ Peter breathed, fighting back tears. How he wanted to get drunk at that very moment. To drown out the thoughts and the pain his own weaknesses had caused. 

The man said nothing. The church was dead silent, light was receding outside, and what had been a beautiful, sunny day was now coming to an end, as it always did. And it always ended too soon. 

‘Peter.’ The man cupped Peter's face in his hands. And as he gazed into Peter's eyes- His face was solemn. He wasn't smiling anymore. He wasn't mocking him. ‘You have done nothing wrong.’ 

Peter blinked, and it sent a single tear rolling down his cheek. He didn't understand what was going on. What did that man _want_? 

‘I didn't say those things to blame you. Your weakness, your burning desire... They’re beautiful things. They drew me to you.’ He narrowed his eyes as a dark smile crept onto his face. ‘You shouldn't be ashamed of them. You shouldn't be ashamed of being _human._ ’ 

‘What do you want?’ Peter finally asked. His anger had vanished. Now he was just lost. He didn't know what to think. The things he said, The kind hands caressing his cheeks, wiping away his tears- They felt warm. They felt good. But everything he had done before, What had been its purpose? Was he just toying with Peter's soul? What did he _gain_ from it? 

The man chuckled. He dropped his hands to rest them on Peter's chest. ‘What I want, Peter, Is for you to be free of your chains.’ 

‘I don't understand-‘ 

The man shook his head and shushed him. ‘Now, now, Peter. Listen. I know what you think- All that talk of sin, of weakness and temptation.’ His hands roamed over Peter's chest. He could feel their warmth even through the cloth. Peter leaned in into the touch, feeling himself relax. The man leaned in closer, until Peter felt his breath against his ear. ‘Those are all lies. Why should you repress such a natural, primal desire- why should you be so afraid of it? Wasn't it your God who made you that way, hm?’ 

Peter was breathing hard. He tried to remain in control. He wanted to stay in control. To not stray from His light yet again. ‘I don't want this.’ Peter said. But instead of sounding determined; he sounded desperate. ‘But it is His Will that His servants remain chaste.’ 

‘Is it His Will, Peter? Has he told you that?’ The man whispered. He sounded amused. The air the man blew on his ear as he spoke made Peter tremble. It was hard to believe that just that little thing could make his body react in such a way. It was difficult to think. These questions he asked- Peter didn't like them. It felt like heresy just to tolerate them. The man chuckled at Peter's silence. ‘Your God has never spoken to you; as he?’ he slurred seductively. Peter remained quiet. ‘When was the last time your God made you feel good? Made your body shiver with pleasure, made you feel _loved?’_ He licked Peter's ear; and then bit it gently. 

That simple act sent uncontrollable shivers down Peter's spine- And before he even properly realised what he was feeling- He moaned. A soft; uncontrolled sound that came from deep within him. He tried to think about those words through the haze of his mind. He found that he didn't have an answer. He didn't even want to think of the answer. He was afraid of what it would say about him, about his faith. 

Then the man stepped back, and he grabbed Peter's chin, observing him with a smirk. ‘You are very quiet, Peter. I wonder, do you even understand what _love_ is? The true, unconditional love, given and taken not depending on worth, but on your will to give or take it.’ 

Peter didn’t know the answer that one either. That concept... Felt so very foreign. So he just watched him, speechless, breathless. ‘Do you want to know?’ 

Did he? Was the love he had been taught to appreciate not enough? That distant, cold love of a demanding parent, who will forgive but never praise, who will love but never show it; in fear that you might grow too complacent in that love. Because you had to earn it. You had to work to be better so that one day you might be worthy of it. 

What sort of love could just be given freely? Where did it lead to, if there was nothing to do to obtain it? What was one supposed to do with it? 

Could Peter just... Take that love as his? Then what would happen? Would God abandon him- Would _he_ have abandoned Him, then? 

What would it _feel_ like once he had taken that love? Would it feel as warm, as perfect as the man who stood before him? 

Peter slowly nodded his head. The man grinned. ‘I will make you _whole_ , Peter. No more hiding. Don't you agree?’ As he said that, he presented the cup of ceremonial wine to Peter. He hadn't even noticed him picking it up. He watched inside of it, the dark red liquid. The blood of Jesus Christ. Alcohol. With a shaky hand, he took the cup and brought it to his lips. He took a single sip. It tasted awful- Just like he remembered it. But he was so _thirsty_. He downed the glass without more ceremony. The man watched with a grin. Then he relieved Peter of the cup, which he dropped on the ground. The metal hit the stone floor, and the sound echoed within the walls of the church- Like a bell tolling the end of a ceremony. 

‘There, feel better yet?’ The man said. 

Peter answered by pressing his lips against his. Then he led him to his office- away from prying eyes. Away from the judging eyes of Jesus on his cross. 

How fast the clothes were removed; and how eagerly they kissed and touched and bit and clawed at the other. Peter was aware, somewhere within him, that he was about to go down a path he could never fully come back from. But he was also tired. Tired of the endless suffering, tired of all the temptation he was meant to resist without ever seeing the promised escape. And all in the name of a Love that he couldn't feel. He did believe in God, he believed in His wrath and in His omniscience. But the love he promised- That everyone else claimed to feel- It felt colder than a winter night, and just as cruel. 

What he felt when he laid with that man, when he entered him and lost himself to the so feared pleasure of the flesh- It was more than what his God had ever made him feel. That encroaching, welcoming warmth that made him feel right and good even when his brain reminded him that it was supposed to be wrong, that it was a sin, that he was damning his eternal soul for a fleeting moment of pleasure. 

But it wasn't enough to keep him away. He held onto the man, kissed him and thrust inside of him like there was no tomorrow, like he didn't know it was a sin. The man dug his nails into his skin, and he pressed so eagerly against him- Peter cried out the Lord's name- ‘ _oh God, it feels so good.’_ And the man laughed. ‘You should be crying out _my_ name.’ 

He had never told Peter his name. But the next time he cried out in bliss, it was the name that passed his lips. ‘ _Elias.’_

Elias pulled him down into a wet, messy kiss. ‘ _Good.’_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok that one's a bit of an harsh one.  
> There are trigger warnings for mention of self harm, risk-taking behaviour(indirect mention of suicide through it)
> 
> Be careful reading that one.  
> There's nothing graphic at all.

Even long after Elias had departed, Peter sat alone in that room, exhausted physically and mentally. He had considered drinking- In fact the bottle of sacramental wine was right in front of him, on his desk. But he didn’t see the point of it. What would it accomplish? He drank because he wanted to forget, he drank to feel something other than that vast emptiness inside of his heart, he drank so he didn’t have to think. 

He knew now that he couldn’t forget that. Drinking only made it worse- He would once again doubt the truth of his own memory if he did that. And as he had just been proved, that served no purpose other than to torture himself further with a false hope of redemption. Now, he was faced with the raw truth of his actions, with the certainty that he had _chosen_ to lay with that man, and that in spite of everything he believed in, every single ones of his vows. Of course, he wanted to believe that Elias had been influencing him. That he had, somehow, clouded his mind from the truth, pulled him away from the righteous path by some sort of witchcraft or unholy power of persuasion. But that too, would just be a lie. There was no one responsible for Peter’s actions that himself. 

And that made him impossibly angry. At himself, for being so weak as to repeat the same mistake twice, and each time not even trying to hide from the eyes of God. Not that it was possible. But he had been so utterly shameless even as he debased himself with that man. That Elias. Whoever- Whatever- he was, Peter was angry at him too, for having ever decided to come to him, to involve him in whatever cruel game he was playing. 

And he was angry at God. Why did He let that happen? Why had he let that wicked man set foot in his house, and let him lay his hands on his servant, not once, but twice. Was he not supposed to keep the faithful from such evil? Was he not supposed to only give them trials that they were able to overcome? It all felt like a bad joke played on him. Peter felt betrayed. Perhaps he had no right to be, after all, he was the one who had broken his vows- God had never promised _him_ anything. So which was worse, to have taken his vows, spent his years serving a God that cared so little he had let Peter suffer all these years in vain, or to have betrayed a God that did care, but being unable to hear or see it out of blindness. 

So Peter didn’t touch that bottle. He glared at it. The blood of Christ, some cheap, disgusting wine, a placebo to solve the mind’s torment. And that placebo had just stopped working. Maybe one good thing had come out of it. Peter didn’t feel that need to drink anymore. But that was perhaps even worse. Because now he felt drawn to something else entirely. 

He felt just fine when he went to sleep that night. He felt angry, he felt conflicted, of course. However, behind all of that, he felt fine. Warm, maybe. Satisfied. Satiated. Like he was _full_ . That feeling of not craving anything, of not feeling utterly empty beyond reason, Peter couldn’t remember when he had experienced it for the last time. Or if he had ever experienced it at all in his life. His childhood hadn’t exactly been the most fulfilling. His parents hadn’t been the loving sort, and he had never been very sociable. He had spent his childhood in mute solitude, until the day of that accident that had made him an orphan. So maybe, he had always felt that gnawing, dull emptiness inside his heart. Perhaps that was why the change filled him with such _bliss_. 

As he closed his eyes, lying in bed, waiting for sleep to claim him, his mind was filled with memories of _him_. Elias. His touch, his voice and his mesmerising eyes. The pleasure he had given to Peter, the sweet lies he had whispered in his ear-Or were they truths? It was getting more difficult to tell as his consciousness slipped away. 

His dreams too, were filled with his presence. 

_ 

Peter had expected for Elias to not show up before another month, just as he had done before that. He didn’t know whether that was a good thing, as upon waking up, he felt empty again, with only memories to keep him company. It was almost unbearable. The weight of his guilt and shame came crashing down on him- And the first thing he did was drop by the local shop and buy enough beer to last the week. 

Peter had one of these before he went to church, and as soon as he stepped in, he felt the weight of God’s judgement on him. Looking at the cross, it felt like Jesus was shunning him. _‘I died for your sins, and you lose yourself in it in my own house.’._ Peter signed before the cross as he always did, though he kept his head low and hurried out of the room to change, eager to get rid of that feeling of being watched. 

That day, he made his sermon about forgiveness. ‘God forgives all who atone for their sins.’ He said. That was only half true. He remembered with clarity a passage that know seemed to stab him in the gut whenever his eyes fell upon it. 

_“For if, after they have escaped the defilements of the world through the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, they are again entangled in them and overpowered, the last state has become worse for them than the first. For it would have been better for them never to have known the way of righteousness than after knowing it to turn back from the holy commandment delivered to them.”_

How many times would he have to fall for God to finally stop forgiving him? Each time he relapsed; his sin grew. He felt God’s love would soon be out of his reach. And he didn’t know if he even felt anything at the thought of that loss. What did God expect from him, anyway, after he had put on his path such wickedness, and afforded him no help to resist it? Surely, He had seen what would come from it. 

It felt wrong, to entertain such thoughts as he spoke to the people assembled before him about God’s love and forgiveness. About confession and repentance. He felt like they somehow knew his thoughts, and were all judging him for it. That was almost enough to send him into a panic- And he would have certainly given in to that paranoia, had his eyes not met the gaze of a too familiar figure, sat at the back. All of these thoughts left him as he felt that tingle within his spin, that warmth in his chest that he feared and loved equally. 

Peter saw him again, the next day. And the day after that one too. Every time he was there, just watching Peter from the back of the church, with that unsettling smile and those piercing, tantalising eyes. Every time he was there, Peter felt that sudden surge of warmth spread throughout his body, and a burning ache would grow inside his chest- Like he was burning from the inside just from feeling Elias’ eyes on him. Just from knowing that he was there, so close. It was painful. Yet along with that pain, came that sensation of utter fulfilment, that he had thought he had lost forever. The pain always vanished once Elias left- He never stayed very long, merely came and went on a whim, taunting Peter with his presence. 

More than once, after the mass was over and people had left, he felt a single tear run down his cheek as that burn receded. From relief, but also from the loss of it. 

Peter did try to pray on his own. He did try to attend his other duties. But he was too much at a loss to focus on any of that. All he could feel was that aching emptiness in his heart, and even his craving for alcohol hadn’t been that strong. There was nothing he did that relieved it. No prayer, no ritual he did eased that ache; that itch for something he had tasted and couldn’t do without anymore. He tried to forget about the feeling itself, too. He hoped that maybe, if he forgot what it felt like to be in utter bliss, then it would all become more bearable. Prayers didn’t work. They couldn’t free him of that sin. But there had to be something else he could do. He looked within the Holy scriptures for advice. As he had gotten used to. It was cheaper than any therapist, and less judgmental too, than any member of the clergy or doctor. 

_“Since therefore Christ suffered in the flesh, arm yourselves with the same thought, for whoever has suffered in the flesh has ceased from sin” - Peter 4:1_

The irony that he would find such an answer within that part of the scripture. A while ago, maybe, Peter would have scoffed at the idea of inflicting pain upon his flesh to atone for his sins. It was something only fanatics did. Now he laughed at how he was so desperate, that he considered it. 

At first, Elias only seemed to appear at church. It was a small relief, as once he was in the comfort of his home, or out going about his life, he knew that he was safe- Although he was then, utterly alone and it was so very _cold_. That had Peter wonder if Elias wasn’t just an illusion after all- Perhaps an attempt of his mind to give shape to the growing unease he felt in his role as a priest. The constant shift between being angry and being desperate for God’s love must have been quite taxing on his mental health, of that he had no doubt. He had never seen anyone else acknowledge his presence, after all. Oh, he could have asked someone. But he feared the answer to the question, as none of them would be a good sign. 

But of course, as soon as he thought he understood him, Elias did something to prove him wrong. 

Peter had been doing some mundane shopping, in that small, awful grocery store that only desperate people ever went to. It wasn’t that the people there were especially rude or nosy. They were just distant. The cashier didn’t smile to you, and if you were lucky, they would mumble a ‘thank’ as you left. Their stock was hardly fit for someone shopping for a large family, and hygiene wise- Sometimes you could find a rotten fruit in the midst of the others, and Peter had found pre-made meals that had gone bad for over a month according to the expiration date. How they managed to keep the place running, he couldn’t figure out. As far as Peter was concerned, it was perfect. He never met anyone who came to church, didn’t have to talk to anyone and could take his time to shop without a noisy crowd around him. The only sounds in there being the buzzing and flickering electric lamps above, and the distant music of a speaker hidden away somewhere. 

Peter was busy looking at the different sort of beers on the shelf, wondering if he should get drunk on something fancier than usual, or just stick with the cheap brand he usually bought; when he was suddenly aware of that burn inside of his chest. He swallowed hard, his vision blurred and he almost dropped his shopping bag as he attempted to steady himself. It was stronger than it had ever been, and Peter couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t speak or move, he just gripped his chest in his quiet agony. 

He felt a hand on his back, and just like that, the pain was gone. The burn spread into a soothing warmth, and his whole body relaxed. He didn’t need to look to know whose hand it was. 

‘Dearest Peter, it has been too long.’ Elias said. Peter turned to look at him. Of course, he was smiling. He wore a suit, entirely black save for those green, unsettling eye patterns that adorned the jacket. Peter swore were moving, watching. But it was ridiculous. And as he thought that, they became eerily still. His immaculate outfit and heavenly handsome features stood out against the mediocre background of the store, a stark contrast that would be ridiculous if it wasn’t for the deeply unsettling aura about him. 

He had expected to feel angry. And at some level, he did, but that anger was smoothed over by the comfort he felt at his touch. He had _missed_ it. No amount of prayer or self-inflicted wounds could absolve him of that sin. 

‘Two weeks.’ Peter answered. Although he had seen him every single day, he knew what Elias meant by that. 

‘ _So long.’_ Elias sighed. _‘_ It’s hard to keep track of time. I hope you didn’t miss me too much.’ 

‘I didn’t.’ Peter said. Only half a lie, he told himself. He had seen him so often, how could he have missed _him_? 

Elias chuckled. He didn’t appear to be offended in the least. ‘I’m surprised, Peter. I didn’t take you for a liar.’ 

‘Sorry to disappoint.’ Peter said, as he averted his eyes. He felt like there was no way to stay clear of sin in that man’s presence. Whether he told the truth or lied, he was sinning. It did feel like lying was the least of his crimes after all that he had done. Elias narrowed his eyes, his smile vanished and he suddenly looked very serious for a man that was near constantly smiling. He ran his fingers across Peter’s chest and spoke very solemnly. ‘Nothing you could do or say would disappoint _me_ , Peter.’ 

Peter inhaled sharply; Elias’ words had had quite the impact on him. He couldn’t imagine anyone not being disappointed with him. He was certainly disappointing himself. Elias was close to him now, his face mere centimetres away from his own. Peter glanced around nervously; He knew very well that their proximity would be interpreted as sensual by any witness. He couldn’t allow himself to be seen like that. Much to his relief, at that time of the day, the store was near empty, and the drink aisle was currently deserted. Only the cameras could be trouble, but he doubted that anyone would care to look at them too closely unless something criminal happened. He kept his head low nonetheless, not wanting to show his face too much. 

‘Why do you say these things-’ 

‘Because it’s the truth. Is that so hard to believe? That I have only your best interest in mind?’ Elias smirked. He probably knew that it was hard to believe; that anyone in their right mind would be warry of such words. But he must have also been well aware that Peter, as suspicious as he was, was very receptive to them anyway. ‘Yes, it _is.’_ Peter said. 

‘Then I will do my best to show you.’ Elias pulled him down into a kiss, right there, in the middle of a grocery store’s drink aisle, where anyone could see them. Peter panicked, and when Elias let him go, he stumbled backward, almost crashing into the shelves behind him. He wiped his mouth, not in disgust, but self-conscious that anyone would notice what had just transpired here between them. Someone did come around the corner. They didn’t even spare a glance in Peter’s direction though, merely going about their shopping. Elias laughed. It wasn’t a mocking laugh- No it was the laugh of someone having fun. If it had been anyone else laughing like that, Peter would have found it endearing. But he didn’t. It was just _off._ ‘I’ll be seeing you soon, Peter.’ Elias said. ‘Very soon, indeed.’ 

And then he left. He didn’t disappear. He never seemed to. He just walked out of sight, and Peter never had the energy to follow and see where he was going, to follow and see if he simply vanished or just went about his day like nothing had happened. At that point, whether Elias was real or not, it didn’t change much to his situation. If he was a delusion, all Peter could do would be to see a doctor about it, and he didn’t want to be hospitalised and made to explain in detail what exactly he saw. The shame of it... He would rather not speak about it. If Elias _was indeed_ real, it was about the same, really. He couldn’t harm another human being. And if he went to the Police and explained that he had been harassed by that man, he would have to give a detailed account to them, and he expected much worse results. They would laugh in his face, and probably share that with everyone around the village. The clergy would eventually hear about it, and it would all be over for Peter. 

He could of course, talk to another member of the church. He had a few acquaintances back in the day. But he hadn’t seen them in a long time outside of seminars. He simply didn’t trust them to keep their word about the confidentiality of his confession. There was one person Peter trusted fairly enough- An old mentor, the one who had brought him into the order in the first place, when he was just a lost teenager trying to fight against the whole world. He had always been a kind and understanding man. Never judged, never yelled or used his faith to make others feel bad about themselves. But in his case, Peter simply didn’t want to _disappoint_. He reckoned the man had placed high hopes in him... He just couldn’t bring himself to ruin that. 

He was truly alone. He remembered all these people saying how one was never alone with God at their side, but Peter was starting to feel that it was no comfort at all. God simply didn’t seem to care. 

Peter had expected to see Elias at church that day. Or the day after. But he didn’t see him or even feel him. That made him nervous. It gave him the exact same feeling as when he lost sight of a particularly huge spider, knowing she was still there somewhere and ready to crawl up his leg or descend upon him from the ceiling. That anxiety had of course, come at just the right time. Peter had to prepare Christmas mass. It had never been his favourite event. In fact, he disliked most of the big catholic holidays. It made his job much harder, and on these occasions the church was crowded with people. There were two different masses, and even the following days were simply hectic, too many people decided to confess too. And as tradition went, He also had to agree to let the children attending the village’s Sunday school to have an improvised play there as well. 

They weren’t many attending Sunday school, but it was still a lot of work to organize along with the rest of the mass, and that meant partaking in more human interactions than Peter liked to. To top it off; the woman teaching Sunday school wasn’t exactly pleasant either. She talked too much and she had the bad habit of talking about the freshest gossip in town. Peter tried to keep their interactions as brief as possible- via text, usually to exchange essential information regarding Sunday school and everything related to it. But of course, on those occasions, she often saw it best to come by the church and talk Peter’s ears off about her neighbour’s make up skills. It was too much to handle. Peter’s mind was already at its limit with his personal struggles, and that woman was insufferable. There wasn’t a thing she didn’t criticise coming from others, as if she was perfect. No child of God was perfect- As a teacher at Sunday school she had to know that. Perhaps he should have gently reminded her to remain professional and to not judge as God was the only judge, as he had done before, many, many times before. Instead he told her that she didn’t look like she knew much about make up either, and that she could certainly learn a thing or two in the Bible about humility. 

She didn’t like that much. She went off about Peter being incredibly rude, that for a man of the cloth he didn’t seem to know the Bible very well, then stormed out of the church. 

Honestly, that got Peter chuckling to himself for a good while. Out of habit, he did the sign of the cross as an apology for his cruel thoughts and words. Then he went on with his own mass preparations, unbothered, save for the occasional text from the still very bitter Sunday school teacher. 

Peter didn’t see Elias for the rest of that week, either. When Christmas day finally arrived, Peter’s anxiety had somewhat died down, he had been too busy focusing on his work to do little else, and when he wasn’t hard at work, he made sure that he was fast asleep. Mixing alcohol and sleeping pill was not a good idea, he was well aware of that, but it ensured that he didn’t dream. He had found that out by accident- And had stuck to that for the past few days. He just had to be careful about dosage. Maybe it would eventually kill him, but for now it worked, and that’s all he cared about. There was still nothing to be done about that gaping nothing he felt. It just seemed to get worse by the days, while the dreams got more vivid. It was unbearable. 

That night had been one of the longest of Peter’s life. The sheer number of people he saw that day had him exhausted to his core. He still didn’t see Elias, and he was almost disappointed. Like that would have helped him in any way. The following days were about as hectic. When Sunday came around, they were just barely settling down. Soon it would be New Year's Eve. More preparation. Peter didn’t know if he was going to survive that one. But he tried, at least. Wasn’t it all he could do, what he had always done? Try to be good enough, and get nothing in return. 

He was trying to relax that afternoon, sitting in his church, eyes fixed on the cross before him. It was raining that day. The sound of rain hitting the stained glass had always been his favourite. There was something so utterly peaceful about hearing rain outside, but being perfectly dry and safe from it. Like it all happened in another, distant world. A world Peter was not part of, entirely cut off from the rest of the universe. He heard the sound of footsteps, then someone he didn’t know sat next to him. ‘Father Lukas?’ Peter slowly turned his head, but didn’t answer. The man extended his hand. ‘I’m Father George Perry. Good to meet you.’ Peter looked down at his hands. They were old and looked quite sweaty. He had no wish to shake it. He knew very well what he was there for anyway, so he found no reason to act nice or polite. Father Perry dropped his hand after a while, clearing his throat. ‘I suppose you know why I’m here?’ 

‘Enlighten me.’ 

Father Perry shifted nervously in his seat. ‘Trust me, I don't like being the bringer of bad news, but here they are. There has been... complaints, from several members of your congregation.’ 

Peter said nothing. He returned his gaze to Jesus on his cross, hung there in his agony. A grim and constant reminder of His suffering. 

‘The general consensus seems to be that you are aggressive towards members of your flock. There were also quite a number of complaints mentioning you regularly missing mass, and some indirectly mentioned your drinking habits.’ 

A long list of Peter's sins. If only that man knew. It made him laugh to think that it had taken so long for those complaints to have finally been taken into account. Half of the senders were probably long dead now. Peter knew exactly why they had only brought that up now. The Sunday school teacher had friends in the diocese and even higher in the hierarchy. She had certainly pulled strings for an intervention after Peter had offended her. 

‘I'm.... glad you find this funny, Father.’ Perry said, a disapproving scowl on his face. ‘I understand that you are in a quite isolated parish; I get that you struggle with your own demons – But we simply cannot allow-' 

Peter turned to glare. ‘Cannot allow what? People knowing how messed up the Church is? Maybe they should know.’ 

Father Perry sighed. ‘It's our duty to make sure that the people doesn't lose faith in the Church, and so in God. And it's your duty to do everything in your power to maintain the positive image of the Church through your actions.’ He recited that like he had learnt it by heart from a book. That did nothing but irritate Peter further. 

‘I do my best with the cards God dealt me.’ Peter said. ‘They aren't good cards. I'm human, so I oversleep. I drink. I get angry when people push it too far.’ 

That didn't please Father Perry at all. He made a disgusted face. ‘So you indulge in sin without shame because you're human? That's hardly the type of thinking a man of the cloth should have.’ 

‘Oh; I am ashamed. I try to atone for them every single day. But I'm afraid there are some sins that cannot be avoided when you're entirely on your own’ 

‘All sins can be avoided with the help of God.’ Perry answered dryly. Peter laughed bitterly. What a cruel joke. 

‘Well God clearly hasn't seen it fit to help _me_.” 

‘He helps all those who seek genuine forgiveness for their trespasses.’ 

Peter truly snapped at the words. They cut like knives through his chest. ‘Genuine forgiveness? Do you think I haven't given enough of that? Do you think I haven’t been praying day and night for His help?’ 

‘I would never presume-' 

Peter stood up abruptly. The man jumped. ‘Oh, you do presume. You presume wrong.’ He was about to leave and end that conversation right there, but the man stood up as well. He placed a hand on Peter's shoulder to halt him. ‘God will grant you forgiveness for _anything_. But you sometimes, you must show your desire for redemption is stronger than the desire to give up. You sound like you want to give up.’ 

Peter shrugged him off, and left him there without any further consideration. 

When he found himself alone, his anger and bitterness consumed him. His thought spiralled down until they crashed and left him with tears in his eyes and a bottle in hand. 

_You sound like you want to give up._

Of course he did. What was he supposed to do? He had done everything by the book. He was supposed to earn his forgiveness through his hard work as a priest . He was supposed to never be tempted without a way out. He was supposed to feel God's love even after he had strayed from the light in a moment of weakness. But he had gotten none of that. How long was he supposed to go on before his soul and mind finally were finally at peace? How could he atone for his sins even more than what he had done already? There was nothing- 

And then he remembered. To be hurt in the flesh was considered the purest act of devotion. To suffer as Christ Himself had. It was only fair that to gain forgiveness for the worst of trespasses , an equal amount of pain must be inflicted upon the body. 

Peter thought about that for a long time, alone in his office, with the sound of rain and growing shadows as his only companions. What could he do? What pain would be enough? Perhaps he would have to mark his flesh , to keep a reminder of his past weaknesses at all hours. 

It was around ten- according to his watch anyway- when Peter woke up, still in his office. It was completely dark- And he had no recollection of falling asleep on his desk. He groaned, still groggy from sleep, and dragged himself to the light switch. 

Once the light on, he started tidying up the desk, and found a list. It was a list of... self-inflicted tortures, written by his hand. At the top were the words ‘carve the flesh'. He grimaced, remembering very well what he had meant by that. Just imagining the amount of pain he would have to endure made him feel ill. 

But he couldn’t afford to back out of that. He had to try. The dreams had haunted him again during these few hours of non-drug induced sleep. And he felt _so_ _cold_ _inside_. How much longer could he take it? He hadn't a specific number in mind- But if the alcohol hadn’t killed him yet even after all these years; The sleeping pills wouldn’t take as long to do it. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: Self-Harm, graphic depiction of it. It's right at the beginning, so I'll separate it from the rest.  
> Some sexy stuff at the end that you'll see coming.

Peter took the time to lock the church's door. He doubted anyone would come in at that hour- But he also felt a bit paranoid these days. And with the visit he had gotten earlier, he had no doubt that he would be under closer scrutiny now. He could have waited another day, or went home to do it. But he was afraid of losing his momentum. That if he waited again, he would never be able to go through with it or that he would be dissuaded to do it. 

He didn’t have a knife; he didn’t have anything to sterilise whatever he would use to injure himself aside from fire. And it was just fine by him. The place didn’t lack in the matter of sharp items. Of course, he did find the irony of using a piece of shattered glass from a wine bottle for it quite fitting, so he shattered one of the old bottles of mass wine that he kept in the back room, grabbed a lighter, and he removed his clothes, keeping only his pants and shoes. The wound would have to be on his chest. 

It was cold inside the church, and the silence was deafening. Peter knelt before the Altar, looking up at the cross. ‘Lord give me strength’ he muttered. Then he grabbed the lighter he used to light all these damned candles, and brought it close to the shard of glass. He passed the flame over it until it was so hot that he could barely keep it in his shaking hand. He looked up at the Christ on his cross one last time, before pressing the burning hot shard to his chest. 

Just that made his eyes water. He clenched his teeth as he felt the burning hot glass sink into his flesh. He pressed hard, and he gripped the shard of glass so hard that it cut through his palm as well. A pained whimper died in his throat as he slowly dragged it down towards his stomach. He felt it rip through his skin in a messy, jagged line. He felt blood pouring from his glass and from the growing wound on his chest. When the glass parted from his skin he was shaking so bad, he almost dropped the shard on the floor. He could feel tears running down his cheeks and swallowed hard to choke back a sob. He felt that hot, burning pain on his chest, and every time he moved he felt the open wound shift and send ripples of agony throughout his body. He wasn’t done yet. He breathed in, and he looked up at Jesus and he thought ‘look at what you make me so. Look at my pain and tell me I’m not trying hard enough for Your Love.’ 

He brought the shard to his chest again. He used his other hand, the other could barely stop from shaking and it hurt too badly to hold anything. Another line. He dragged it, perpendicular to the other, longer line. It wasn’t nearly as hot now, but it still burnt as it parted skin and flesh, tore through it. All that unnecessary ripping of skin. A knife would have left a much cleaner wound- But he had no desire for any clean, proper wound. In a way, it was appropriate that it would be so messy. 

Then it was done. Peter was sobbing, shaking, and his torso and hands were aflame with pain. He dropped the shard and there was not a single position that eased that pain. Blood slowly oozed out of his wounds; he could see its shine on his skin in the darkness, feel it run along his skin where it wasn’t too painful to feel anything else but that dreadful burn. He almost regretted it. Was that pain really worth it? He did feel relieved- Now that he was suffering so much, he must have done enough. Surely, now he would be forgiven and freed from his torment at least for a little while. 

* * *

Peter heard the footsteps behind him. Slow footsteps, that echoed in the silent church. He closed his eyes, and hung his head low, tears flowing again not only from the pain but from the realisation. He knew who it was. And he knew at that moment that there would be no respite to his torment, no matter what he did. He truly was alone. 

‘Look at yourself, Peter.’ Elias’ voice sounded behind him. Peter didn’t turn around. He wasn’t sure he could move at that point. Elias simply came to crouch before him. He was wearing a crimson red suit that time. He wasn’t smiling. Instead, there was a deep look of pity on his face, but he didn’t seem saddened at all. ‘Once again, you suffer for a God that will simply not look your way. And why? So you get nothing.’ 

‘Leave, please.’ Peter pleaded. He did his best to look away. But Elias was having none of it. He grabbed his chin and look straight into his eyes. ‘Tell me Peter, did it accomplish anything? All that pain, that suffering? Does your God care more now that you bled for him? Does he love you now?’ 

‘No. There’s just... pain.’ Peter murmured. He averted his eyes. He couldn’t stand to look into his eyes. He felt too vulnerable, too foolish to look at anyone. He wanted to disappear. All these years sacrificed in vain to a God that never cared if he did the right thing. 

Elias nodded. ‘that’s just how He is, isn’t it? So many suffer for him, die for him... And he doesn’t care.’ 

‘Maybe he cares. Just not about sinners like me.’ Peter laughed weakly. It hurt and made him wince. ‘I should have known from the beginning that He would never forgive me. I was so young and so foolish to believe someone like me could be worthy of his love.’ 

‘It has nothing to do with worth. It has to do with subservience. He expects all of his servants to be miserable, unquestioning sheep. You are not a sheep, Peter. You are, and have always been a wolf.’ At that he grinned. His teeth seemed... Sharper, somehow. Then he let go of Peter’s chin. ‘He doesn’t deserve you to bleed for Him.’ He added, and as he said that, he placed his hand on Peter’s chest. Pain flared up, Peter cried out- It burnt so bad, it was even worse than it had been. Like actual fire spreading along the cross shaped cuts. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. And then, just like that, the pain disappeared. Peter looked down at his bare chest. In the obscurity, he still saw the blood, but in place of his fresh, still bleeding wound, he saw a scar. He looked back at Elias. ‘What are you?’ He asked. His first thought was that he must have been some sort of _angel._ He corrected himself, no angel could possibly have done all that he had done. Yet he was powerful, and he looked so inhumanly perfect- and at the same time, all these qualities didn’t seem quite right. It was with bitter irony that Peter remembered; Demons too, were once angels. 

Elias, of course, didn’t answer. He smiled, and got up, extending his hand to Peter, who looked up at him in awe. Maybe Peter was still asleep, somehow, and all of that was a dream. Or it was very much real- or as real as it seemed anyway- And that was yet another test. 

Peter took Elias’ hand and got up. The scars on his chest felt weird. Like his skin was too tight, and numb in places. With the pain gone- his soul was truly, utterly numb. It was like it had just been stripped of everything all at once. Emotions, memories, dreams and hope. And Its purpose. A whole life spent serving God in the hope of one day entering Heaven. Now that purpose was gone. God had turned His back on Peter, and there was nothing he had done that had changed his mind. He had left him fall into the hands of a demon. Let him give in to temptation without hope for redemption. Because He didn't care about a sinner like him. 

‘The pain was a nice distraction, wasn't it?’ Elias said, tracing the scar on Peter's chest with his pale, impossibly warm fingers. ‘Now you need to deal with what lies underneath. A worst sort of affliction, to be sure.’ 

‘What do you even know about pain, demon?’ Peter said. He didn't have the energy to be properly angry. ‘Leave me be. You've won.’ 

Elias tilted his head to the side, eyebrow raised as he dropped his hand to his side. ‘I've won? What have I won exactly, Peter?’ 

Peter scoffed. Was he playing the fool now? What did that achieve? Peter had already given up on redemption. What more could he lose now? ‘I've lost everything. My Faith is... not even a shadow of what it used to be. I'm probably going to be removed from my parish. Isn't that what you wanted?’ 

Elias burst into laughter. The sound echoed all around. It sent chills down Peter's spine. It sounded like it came from everywhere at once. Elias actually wiped away a tear from his eye. ‘ah- I haven't laughed like that since the last time I watched the exorcist. That's a joke.’ He chuckled, and when it died out, he continued. ‘I didn't do that, Peter. I don't get bonus points for leading people astray. I've already told you what I want- In very clear terms, I recall.’ 

Peter remembered that. ‘ _I want to free you of your chains'_ But it had been a lie. It had to be. Demons only cared about corrupting God's creations. 

‘You did. You came to me.’ Peter said. ‘Why keep up the lies? I'm already broken. Do what you want with me and _leave._ ’ 

‘ _tempting._ ’ Elias grinned, and that time Peter swore he could see _fangs_ in the darkness. ‘But I want you to understand Peter- It wasn't me who took your resolve away. Or your faith in God- It was already waning. It just needed a push. I was that push.’ Elias shrugged, like it was of no relevance. 

‘And that absolves you of guilt?’ 

Elias sighed. Peter heard a hint of exasperation there. 

‘Peter. You were slowly wasting away there. Drinking yourself closer to oblivion every single day. And your soul has... such potential. I simply had to help. To Free you from the cruel hold of that silent, uncaring God.’ Peter didn't comment on that. It was after all, the truth. He let him continue. ‘Of course I knew you would greatly suffer in that process- Trust me, it gave me no joy to watch you suffer so. It simply had to happen.’ Yet he smiled as he said that. It was hard to believe anything he said. But even harder not to want to believe him. Peter desperately wanted to believe he had someone on his side. 

‘You’re not sorry.’ 

Elias chuckled. ‘Did I say I simply meant that I'm not the one who enjoys watching my followers suffer.’ 

There had been a time when that would have been enough for Peter to leave. To stop listening. The idea that God _enjoyed_ the suffering of his creation went against everything the Bible taught. But that time had passed. 

‘ _Your_ _followers_. Do you have many of them?’ Peter inquired. 

‘I had. Not anymore. It doesn’t matter, it’s all in the past.’ Elias waved his hand dismissively, and looked in the distance as if he was recalling a distant memory. When his eyes fell upon Peter again, they seemed to be staring into his very soul. A smile slowly crept onto his face. ‘Are you offering to join their count, _Father Lukas_?’ he said in voice that made Peter shiver. Was it in fear or desire? There were times he couldn't tell those apart. It was one such time. 

‘That's why you’re here. You want me to join your cult.’ Peter sneered. 

‘What a delightful thought. But that’s not what I want, no. Once again, you seem to mistake me for your God. Interesting.’ Peter scowled. Elias chuckled, definitely amused by his little play. He stepped forward, body pressed against Peter, one hand on his bare chest and the other taking Peter’s own. Peter felt the familiar warmth against his skin- It seemed to seep into his bones, warming him to his core. It was still the best sensation Peter had ever experienced, and one he had sorely missed. It took all he had to not lose himself in it. He didn’t know if Elias did that on purpose, or if it was just part of his being. ‘What _I_ want, dearest Peter, is _you.’_ Peter exhaled shakily. ‘W-what do you mean?’ 

‘I mean that what I want is your love, Peter. Just as we talked about last time, remember?’ Of course Peter remembered. How could he forget? ‘I don’t understand what you get from this.’ 

Elias kissed Peter’s neck. Then his jawline, then his cheek, and finally his Lips. Peter sighed. The feeling of Elias’ lips against his own, soft and warm and tender- It was a welcome respite after all of the pain and sorrow. An oasis in the desert. The last meal of a man sentenced to death. 

‘Feel that?’ Elias took Peter’s hand and put it against his own chest. There was a steady heartbeat there, slow and languid- But that wasn’t the most remarkable part. It was incredibly warm, despite the clothes. It felt like touching bare, feverish skin. ‘Your love feeds me. Makes me feel warm. And mine, makes you feel warm. We share that. Doesn’t it feel nice?’ 

‘I-it does.’ Peter’s voice trembled. That was an understatement. But how long would it last again? How long until the warmth left him and he felt the creeping cold consume his soul again? ‘But it won’t last. It’s not- Love.’ 

Elias nodded. ‘Precisely. That kind of love we share- it's a burning fire. It’s passion. It burns bright until it has consumed everything, and leaves you cold and wanting.’ He released Peter’s hand, but Peter didn’t drop it. ‘I never cared much for the cold.’ 

‘I don’t like it either.’ It was painful. All he could think about when it settled back in, was when he would finally be able to feel that warmth again. It killed him. Haunted him even as he slept. 

‘What I want, what feeds me, is not just passion- It's that all-consuming love. I want you to desire me. I want you to remember our time together when you eat, when you drink, when you sleep and when you pray, and I want these thoughts to fill you with _love_.’ 

These words gave him Goosebumps. ‘It’s already the only thing I think about. I can’t even control it. And it only _hurts_.’ Peter said. He sounded desperate, pathetic. But oddly enough, he didn’t feel any shame. 

‘Of course it does. You’re trying to fight it. Trying to quench the fire that’s already within you. It’s bound to hurt. If you allow yourself to let it grow, if you embrace it, then I promise you Peter- you will never feel that ache again. ’ 

His words always seemed so right; so comforting. They made Peter want to believe them, to place all his trust in Elias’ hands. He knew that Demons lied, of course. They made you hear what you wanted to hear, made you think what they wanted you to think. Whether those demons were real or the creation of a struggling psyche, it hardly mattered. 

Peter had always thought that if he ever was faced with a demon, he would be able to see it for what it was. He had thought that by knowing, he would be able to resist its siren song, to see the lies and poison laced in its melody. Instead he found himself well aware, and desperate to hear more. He had lost everything; he was without a purpose and a belief. What other way was there to follow? Why should he turn back, and go back to his empty cold existence? Why should he spend whatever was left of it acting like he still cared about the state of his mortal soul? Why choose misery when he could ensure that he felt loved for the rest of his mortal life? He already knew the gate of heaven was closed on him. There was no reason to continue down that path. 

‘Please Elias, How- how do I do that?’ 

Elias grinned. A wide, toothy grin that Peter had never seen before. Even his eyes lit up with _something_ . ‘It’s really not that hard, Peter. You just have to let go of your fear. That’s what holds you back, isn’t it? The fear to disappoint, to lose everything, to be tossed into the fire of Hell... So many fears. I’m sure you don’t need _me_ to list them.’ 

‘Sounds difficult to me.’ Peter frowned. To abandon all these fears, he would need years. They had been with him since he was a child. He had grown into them, they had motivated his every step. 

‘Is it? What’s left to fear, Peter?’ 

And it clicked. Nothing. There was nothing left to fear. He had already disappointed his God, the clergy, his congregation and himself. He had lost all that he had. His faith, his purpose- He might be losing his work as well, after his encounter with Father Perry. And being damned for eternity... Well, it seemed like he had never been safe from that either. If he abandoned himself now- He would lose nothing. His life too, wasn’t even worth keeping in the first place. Peter would have cried if he had anymore tears left. Instead he laughed. A soft, desperate laugh. He looked down at his scared hand. ‘There’s nothing. Just nothing.’ 

‘No more chains.’ Elias said, Peter heard the smile in his voice even as he couldn’t see his face. He only looked up when Elias guided his hand to his mouth. He kissed the scar inside of Peter’s palm. Peter let his hand rest on Elias' cheek, he gazed upon his face a moment, hesitating between what he wanted, what he needed and whatever remained of that little voice in head screaming to let go, to save whatever was left of his soul. Peter ignored it. He kissed Elias, it was desperate a desperate, messy kiss. But it felt good. And Peter didn't have it in him to be ashamed anymore. Feeling ashamed required to have a sense of pride, some acknowledgement of your self-worth. He had lost that too. 

It felt like the heat passing between them was stronger than ever. Peter didn't notice the cold draft passing through the church; or the feeling of the cold stone against his back. All he could feel was the heat, the pleasure as Elias moved on top of him. He was so loud, his moans filling the silence of the church, echoing against the old stone and inside of Peter's mind. The sight of him too, was something. Riding Peter's cock, so unashamed, so eager and so passionate. Peter _envied_ him. He envied the freedom, the daring. As he watched, it occurred to him that nothing truly held him back now. Just habit. The habit of restraining himself, of keeping his desires in check. Peter once thought that these were the things that separated humans from animals. Shame, a consequence of being aware of God's will. 

Now he realised that humans had always been animals, and that it had been foolish to torture himself over it. Whatever God's will was, Peter was no more part of it than a common dog. 

Something inside of him snapped. He pushed Elias off him, pinned him down on his back and spread his legs with a bit too much force for how eager Elias looked. He smiled. And then gasped when Peter started _slamming_ into him. Elias wrapped his arms around Peter's torso, digging his nails into the skin of his back, pulling him in, moaning and cursing. 

It felt so good. So warm. Peter thought he might just start to _burn_ . He was losing control, acting like the animal he had always pretended wasn't inside of him. He too moaned and cursed, and called Elias' name. Over and over and over. He was filled with his presence. The heat spreading inside of him was because of him, it was him. Just _him._ He was all that mattered at that moment. Peter kissed him. He held onto him for dear life as he fucked him, took all that he needed, gave all that he could give. ‘ Do you feel it, Peter?’ Elias breathed ; his handsome face flushed and an absolute mess. ‘ Yes - I feel- I feel _you_ .’ Elias grinned again. His eyes shone a bright green in the darkness. He was beautiful. He felt so good and warm- Peter couldn't make sense of his thoughts anymore. He was so _full_ . So fulfilled and satisfied. ‘ _Say it, Peter._ _Say what you feel.’_

Peter kissed Elias again. So many times. His mouth, his cheek, his forehead, his neck his chest- Anywhere he could reach. ‘I love you- I love you, Elias.’ Peter moaned in answer. Elias threw his head back, his face a picture of pure ecstasy as he came. Peter came too, unable to hold back as a wave of pleasure crashed over him, taking all rational thought away. 

He collapsed on top of Elias with the words still on his lips. He murmured Elias' name like a mantra. He felt him plant a kiss in his hair and pass a hand through them. ‘My dearest Peter, I love you too.’ He said. There was the beginning of a chuckle, but it was drown out as Peter felt his consciousness sleep away once again. He was drained. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter is either a fainter or Elias feeds off him, draw your own conclusions.  
> Needless to say, the love they speak of is not one we want for ourselves, at all. (I knwo it's unhealthy, I want to make sure it's clear)
> 
> It's fucked up. It gets worse.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for a lot of sexy stuff, perversion of catholics rituals- Something that might count as public sex(? unsure)   
> And mentions of other characters that may or may not mean something.
> 
> Enjoy!

When Peter woke up the next morning, he was not in pain. He was not sick with a hangover ; he didn't feel like getting up was pointless.  He got up and pulled the curtain open to let the light in. It wasn't a sunny day- But even the grey of the sky  didn't affect him. He took time to cook breakfast, he showered, and decided to clean up a bit; his beard and  hair had grown too much to his taste. He  Knew how to go about cutting them himself, but often didn't have the energy to actually do it. 

Then he left for church ,  and the walk there  was freeing. His thoughts were  full of memories.  _ Good _ memories. He didn't think about what had been plaguing him until the day before- Although he felt a growing  apprehension at Elias' absence when he  entered the church and started  preparing for morning  mass.  It wasn't too unusual. But he  _ worried _ . 

When he opened the  Bible, his eyes fell upon a quote that had  been underlined by Peter himself; a long time ago. 

_ “whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst; the water that I shall give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” _

The words spoke to Peter's soul.  They had always had. There was hope in them, and a promise to always feel fulfilled, to never want again. The same promise Elias had made.  Just thinking about it made Peter feel that warmth again.  Just as  _ he _ had promised.  Peter was sadly  snapped out of his thoughts by the  loud creak of the church door as the very first people arrived for mass. They were old of course. Only the old and the desperate came to church nowadays. 

The sermon was about God's  _ love _ . More than once Peter felt anger rise inside him. He almost laughed  when he had to say that God loved all of his children equally.  He told them those lies anyway. Because that's what they wanted to hear, wasn't it? They needed to listen to  words they already took as granted.  They didn ’ t want or need the actual truth. 

Peter was glad when it finally was over. And much more even when Elias walked up to him at the end of his sermon, when most people had left to go about their boring little days.  He did feel that heat build up inside his chest- But it didn't hurt. Instead he let it fill his body with pure, unrestrained  _ joy _ at the sight of  _ him _ . 

‘How do you feel, Peter?’ Elias asked. He looked as handsome as ever,  wearing a long black coat with a suit underneath. 

‘Good. I feel good.’ Peter  said, closing his bible. He even felt a smile tug at his lips. He felt absolutely  serene .  The joy  and satisfaction he felt couldn't be explained. It was like receiving the best news of his life but it never died out. And that feeling alone sustained him. He knew that  with it within him, didn't need anything else in his life.  Elias smiled at him, he seemed genuinely  _ pleased _ . Peter didn't really know if he could trust him entirely.  Maybe there was a hidden motive there. There probably was. But he  could just enjoy what he was given, even knowing that, couldn't he? .  That's what he wanted . He wanted to believe he could have at least one good thing in his life, without having to  bleed for it. Especially after what he had gone through.  He remembered the pain from the previous night  vividly when he let his thoughts  linger on it. He felt his mood change.

‘You certainly  _ look _ good.’ Elias said. He reached for Peter's cheek- and the dark thoughts disappeared. ‘You  look  _ very _ handsome when you take time to clean up.’ 

Peter’s face heated up.  He had never really cared much for his looks- He was a priest after all, and he had no reason or want to look good. His words were  what mattered. As a consequence,  he wasn't used to receiving that kind of compliment. At best people told him they had liked his sermon; that he had a soothing voice . It was new to him, he wasn't sure how to react. Truth be told he almost felt like it had to be a joke- Because how could anyone find him handsome?  He looked around ; the setting didn't help. He saw two people chatting near the door, but no one appeared to be looking in his direction. Elias followed his gaze with interest.

‘Are you worried about people seeing us? Hm. I should have thought about that.’ Elias dropped his hand to his side. He didn't lose that smile though. ‘ Isn't it just as I promised you, Peter? ’

‘It is. You kept your word.’ 

‘I didn't do anything , Peter. I have always been willing to share my love with  you. And you are the one who made that happen.’ Then he added with a wry smile. ‘But I do always keep my promises.’

Elias had seemingly satisfied his curiosity, and that meant that it was probably the end of the conversation. Peter once again felt a surge of anxiety- Short lived- Which was about As anxious as he could  feel that day . He wasn’t sure if he should voice his concerns. Truth be told, it did feel like too much work. He hated talking about himself for too long. He wanted to just enjoy Elias’ presence at his side, to close his eyes and relish in the feeling of his touch, and never worry about anything again. But if Elias left- Peter had to ask.

‘Does it.. Go away if you leave?’  He felt that it was b etter to be sure than to risk losing that feeling to the slow corrosion of doubt. It had already ruined enough.

‘I knew you had something on your mind.’ Elias said. ‘Why, do you want me to leave, Peter?’

‘No!’ Peter blurted out. He surprised even himself with how panicked it had sounded. He had almost shouted the word.  He forced himself to regain his composure. ‘But  _ you _ could want to.’

Elias raised an eyebrow. Then he hummed thoughtfully. ‘Let’s go for a walk, Peter.’ 

Peter didn’t even question it. All he did was leave to change into his daily clothes, put a coat and gloves on, and he followed Elias outside.

It wasn’t an ideal day for a walk. It was cold, and snow had started to fall. Yet Elias didn’t seem to care. He walked peacefully next to Peter. They walked along a small deserted path behind the graveyard, it continued on and on, a border between the village and the endless barren fields. At that time of the year, they were just endless plains of mud, and didn’t really give a flattering look to the surroundings. Peter didn’t care though. He knew that landscape by heart, and he needn’t look at it when he had Elias there at his side to brighten up his day. He was the only light in that grey, dull place. 

Elias extended  his hand , palm up toward the sky ,  and he watched as  snowflakes fell on it and immediately melted. He smiled at that, and rubbed his hands together, as if he needed to warm them. ‘It’s good to use these legs sometimes.’ He said. ‘It’s good for your health too.’

Peter shrugged. He had never cared much for his health. He wasn’t exactly against the occasional walk, he just hated crossing path with others when he did go for one. Elias didn’t really seem to expect an answer, and he continued. ‘I just didn’t feel like having that conversation inside  the church . Such a cold, dreadful place, isn’t it?’ Peter found himself nodding. ‘You keep coming, though.’ He remarked. Elias grinned at that. ‘That’s because it’s where you are, dearest Peter. And that's where you  felt _ safe. _ I  couldn't just go about stalking you, you would have  _ hated _ me.  Now it's different of course; isn't it?’

‘Yes , I suppose. .’  It made  sense. T hough right now  Peter couldn’t imagine  _ hating  _ him. Even before, when he was angry at Elias- He never could bring himself to hate him, to reject him, to vilify him.  It didn't mean he entirely trusted him or held him as blameless for all that had happened- But Elias had given him enough that hate was simply out of the picture. Peter was thankful for his gift; and for his presence as well,  because it made him feel good.

‘But I digress.’ Elias waved his hand as he changed the  s ubject. He fell silent for a moment, before he spoke once more.  ‘I feel like I have failed in some way, Peter.’ He said, gravely.

Peter was utterly shocked by the words. ‘Failed? How?’ That hardly seemed possible.  Was something wrong?  Had he done  something wrong, somehow, that  Elias felt he had failed with him?

‘You doubt me, Peter.’ Elias said. He stopped in his track to face him. Peter froze in place. Dread arose from the pit of his stomach. He swallowed, as if it could help at all. His mouth was awfully dry. ‘I-’ Elias interrupted him almost immediately.  ‘ There's no need for justifications or apologies. I understand,  really. I know I can act suspiciously. At times.’ His smile hinted that he was aware  of how much of an understatement that was.  ‘I come and I go; and you wonder if you can trust me. It's a healthy way of thinking, I would be worried if you had no doubts at all. Still, that means I have work to do before-' he stopped mid - sentence,  and shook his  head.

‘ Before  _ what? _ ’ Peter asked. If there was something coming- And Peter had somehow managed to ruin it- Then he would  never forgive himself. 

‘ Before you finall y stop doubting me and we can both move on to a more... pleasant situation.’ Elias took  one of  Peter's hands in his , and kissed it. Even through the gloves he felt the warmth of his lips. The idea of something even more pleasant- It seemed ridiculous. Yet Peter didn't doubt it to be true. Elias let go of Peter's hand and continued.  ‘Now to answer your earlier question, Peter.  I told you- So long as you embrace it,  my love is yours until the end. It's as simple as that.’ The grey world around them made his eyes seem so much greener than usual.  A lush, green tree in the middle of  winter. Relief washed over Peter. If he could never lose that feeling, then all would be alright. 

Peter returned to church shortly after. Elias just left. He had a feeling that he would be alone for the rest of the day. Though he didn’t really feel alone. He had the nagging feeling that someone was watching him. He didn’t pay it much attention. He went to the office to prepare his next sermon. Not something he was overly fond of these days. It felt like spouting lies.  Sleep threatened to  overcome him. He had slept well the previous night, so well.  But at that moment he felt like he could take another nap. He held a pen in his hand, trying to focus. Trying to write something.

He spent a long time staring at the pages in front of him.

Peter didn’t like to read, really. Most of the time he picked up a book and went to his window, and pretended to be reading while he observed the neighbours’ garden. He waited for that boy to come out into the garden like he did every day after school. Peter didn’t go to school, so he had never really spoken to the boy. He just watched him from afar. Sometimes he had friends with him. Peter didn’t like them. He preferred watching when the boy was alone, walking around the garden or sitting in the grass with a book.

It was summer, Peter was at the window. He didn’t have a book. It was so hot. He stared outside, the boy was playing around in a pool with friends. It was the first time he noticed Peter staring. He waved.

After that Peter stood at the window and stared outside. The boy came out into the garden and waved at him. The he shouted questions. Peter never answered, he just left. Until it was Peter who came out into the garden. And the boy was on the other side of the hay. They talked. Well, the boy talked, and Peter listened. He hadn’t much to say. He didn’t really know about all the things the boy was talking about, and he talked so fast. The boy showed him these things. Comic books. Toys. They were together in the garden now. The boy had a beautiful; familiar smile. And when he took Peter’s hand, it was warm. Peter always got flustered when he laughed and called him silly. It was affectionate. Peter smiled back. It was nice.

Peter snapped back into reality like he had been struck by lightning. He almost fell off his chair. He was back in his church, disorientated but otherwise fine. He remembered  his dream well, and he  remembered the boy  in it  too. It was an old memory , One of the only good memories he had. Spending time with  a boy his age; enjoying things that other children did.  Of course, that  course, that story hadn't ended well for Peter. It seemed like no story had ever ended well for him. 

Peter remembered the  boy; and he remembered his feelings for him- But he just couldn’t quite remember  his name. Mark? Martin?  Peter sighed, rubbing his forehead.  It didn’t really matter. It had happened ages ago. 

Peter got back to work. He hadn’t dozed off for too long, but he still had a sermon to work on. The dream wouldn’t quite leave him, though. Something about it bothered him. It was a dream of course, so some of the events didn’t happen, or didn’t happen in that order. But it did feel very real nonetheless, like most of his dreams did, except his other dreams  weren't based off memories . He tried  to recall the events , to look for differences between his memories and the dream , but it didn’t help . If anything;  it only made it all more confusing. 

After a very long day, Peter finally left and started to walk home. It was dark,  though days were slowly  getting longer.  It wouldn't be long before  Peter got home  before sun set.  He wasn't sure if it was a good thing.

‘Peter.’

Peter stopped. He turned around. Elias was right behind him , cloaked in darkness . He hadn’t noticed or heard him. That didn’t really surprise him. He was about halfway home now, and eager to leave the cold, but now with Elias at his side, that stopped being his priority. ‘Why are you- ‘

Elias stepped closer, into the light of a street lamp.  ‘Why am I here? I’m merely checking on you. Making sure you are accommodating well. The pleasure of being in your company is an appreciated bonus, of course.’ Elias smiled, a charming smile. A familiar smile. It took Peter a moment to place it. Then he did.

That boy. He had that smile. 

That was hardly believable, of course. It had been so long; Peter didn’t even remember that boy’s face. But the  _ smile.  _ It felt very much real. Was it just the memory from the dream, or was it from an actual memory? Why did it only come back now? Peter stared at Elias, dumbfounded. He didn’t know what to say. ‘Are you quite alright, Peter? You seem lost.’ Elias gave him a puzzled look, his smile faded just a little. Peter recovered just enough to blurt out an answer. ‘Yes. I- Just a bit tired.’ Elias chuckled. Peter swore he recognized the sound of it, the light, casual teasing in the voice. ‘You are a terrible liar. But fine, keep your secrets.’ 

T he teasing sounded different. Peter started to fidget;  he  scratched his beard and adjusted his collar when it wasn’t necessary.  For some reason,  It made Peter feel things, just looking at him smile and hearing him tease and his laugh-

‘Do tell me if something goes wrong, though. I would hate to see you suffer more than necessary. Getting used to a new life can be quite jarring.’ Elias said. 

‘I’m fine.’ Peter assured, clearing his throat. ‘Just a bit restless.’ And restless he was. ‘I know something that can help.’ Elias whispered suggestively, leaning in close. Very close. Peter’s heart felt like it was going to explode. He grabbed Elias by the waist and kissed him. It was only afterwards that he realised they were in fact, in the middle of the street. It was dark, but the electric light of a street lamp was on them, like the spotlight on a stage. Elias chuckled as he lead  Peter out of the light, and into a dark alleyway, out of sight.

That night, Peter’s dreams were pleasant.

Peter had mostly forgotten about that dream he had. He had stopped thinking about his memories, too. However, he still couldn’t help but see Elias’ smile differently .  He couldn't figure out why it reminded him so much of his childhood crush; and of the feeling associated to it. His crush had been innocent, as pure as it could have been.  And to have that feeling associated to Elias felt  _ wrong _ . Was it though? Would loving Elias in such a way be weird, or wrong or- 

Peter tried to not linger on it. Of course it would be foolish to  have that kind of pure, genuine affection for a demon. Was it even possible? Peter was gone far- But he liked to think that he still was in control of his reason.  No matter how great he felt, demons were not to be trusted. 

Three days passed. A few dreams had troubled P eter ’s mind. They all came back to that childhood crush he had; and all carried that uncanny  smile and laugh that made Peter's stomach flutter in his dreams; and his heart quicken in his waking moments .

It was a regular day at church. No dreams had troubled him yet. But it was  sjust the middle of the afternoon. Peter had some free time,  so he decided to  make himself some  tea . He was t rying to stay awake through the afternoon and until the evening. He hadn't slept the previous night; and while he had been fine all morning, at the start of the afternoon, it hit him hard. The tea wasn’t good, it was like drinking plain boiling water with too much sugar. Peter stared off into space, dazed.

The daze didn’t wear off as it should have had when water hit his face. He was in the bathroom at school. His foster brother was with him, still smoking. Peter couldn’t figure out how he smoked so much of that crap when just one or two hits were more than enough for Peter. 

Then they were back home, in their room. He was talking. He talked about how society was trying so hard to put everyone and everything in boxes, and throwing away anything and anyone that didn’t fit. Asked if Peter understood. Peter laughed. He imagined himself being tossed out of these metaphorical boxes, and floating into the existential void. Of course, he understood. His foster brother wasn’t remarkable in any way. Just a middle- class white teen rebelling against order. But something about the way he held himself, how he spoke- His voice itself- Peter couldn’t help but admire him. He sounded like he was so sure of everything. Like if Peter did just like him, he would never be lost or afraid again. He envied that confidence. 

At some point his parents came in, they yelled and the two of them just left. They hopped out through the window and just walked the street.  _ They’re all sheep. But we’re not.  _ He said. Peter agreed. He had no desire to fit in either. Then they were alone, back at school, in the toilet. More drugs. Peter’s head was spinning, and he was speaking, and everything he said was true, and every time Peter thought about how he wasn’t afraid to be heard, or to be seen. He smoked outside of the cubicles, waiting to be caught and tell any adult to piss off with their stupid rules. Peter’s head wasn’t right then. And he kissed him. Smoke passed in his lungs.

Peter woke up coughing- For no specific reason at all. Waking up took the wind out of him. His tea was cold now. Another half dream, half memory.  Unlike the previous one- Peter only vaguely remembered that guy, his foster brother. He had never had any sort of feelings for him. He had certainly never trie d to kiss him at the time, even when he had been too high to tell up from down.  If the memory stuck, it was because the  few months he spent in that family were some of the most liberating of  his life. His foster brother was what one would call a bad influence. He smoked weed, encouraged Peter to fight and degrade public property on the ground that it was all stupid anyway.  All the arbitrary rules. Peter agreed at the time. The other teen's words gad only been that though, words. Peter still remembered how after all his grand speeches, once he had gotten caught, he had claimed it had been Peter’s idea to smoke weed at school. No one doubted him.

In his dream though, of course it had been different. He was daring and cool . Peter felt genuine affection for him . It was a dream after all.  They weren't reflections of the truth.

Or  were they ? Once again, the line between memory and dream seemed impossible to draw. Like some aspects of the memory had been twisted just enough to be unnoticed, while others were widely incorrect, and others again, were as close to the truth as a dream could be.

Peter sighed. He emptied his cold tea in the pot of a half-dead plant. He needed to sleep more. Whenever he didn’t sleep enough, these odd dreams seemed to come. They weren’t nightmares, and in a way, they were quite pleasant. But Peter couldn’t shake them off. They clung to his mind like leeches, sucking away his memories and perception and replacing them by whatever it was. He considered that he should mention it to Elias, eventually. He genuinely wanted to tell him. To go find him and ask him what was wrong exactly. He knew Elias would have an answer. He believed Elias to be able to help.  Why though? Because he was in those dreams? Or bec a use Peter believed him to be so powerful that he could cure any ailment of his aching soul ?

It was just foolish. If God hadn't bothered helping Peter, then a demon certainly would have no care doing so without a price. Maybe those dreams were in fact the price of that happiness Elias had granted to Peter. Or a way to try to take it away. But  _ Elias _ wouldn't do that. He wouldn't take it away. He wouldn't leave Peter out in the cold again.  Peter believed that. He believed in Elias. 

Reckless.

Maybe Peter just  needed  sleep. But it was difficult to sleep when you didn’t want to. Why sleep when being awake felt so much better than dreams? 

Sleep wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn't He had another of these dreams shortly after the last, during the night. A dream about his old roommate, a guy named  Mikaele . In that dream, he looked trait for trait like Elias. They had a conversation \-  as often whenever  Mikaele wasn’t out  somewhere- about Peter’s studies.  Mikaele simply couldn’t figure out  _ why _ Peter wanted to become a priest. He asked so many questions. ‘How do you know God is real?’ or ‘Did you hear his voice asking you to become a priest’ because he had seen some documentary. That dream was especially disturbing, because it was point by point just how Peter remembered it. Nothing special, Peter was studying, and  Mikaele had just gotten back from a date. He was drunk. He asked Peter why he didn’t try to date instead of becoming  _ a catholic priest, of all.  _ Peter told him that he couldn’t do that. ‘You haven’t taken your vows yet, though.’ then he remembered  Mikaele walking up to him and saying ‘Do you want me to blow you, so you at least know what it’s like? I swear it’s great.’ 

In the real world, Peter had gone red, and blurted out an outraged ‘What- No?’  Mikaele had laughed ‘bloody hell, it wasn’t a serious offer, no need to make that face.’

Peter remembered it so acutely because the shame of the memory still lingered with him. Even as he remembered it, he could almost feel the blush creep onto his face. Looking back, it was obvious that he had wanted it to be a serious offer.  In his dream it had been a serious one.  Mikaele , wearing Elias' face, had gotten on his knees and sucked him off.  The sound he made didn't feel like they could have been coming from a dream.

Now whenever he tried to remember  Mikaele’s face, it was Elias he saw.  Elias on his knees, Peter's cock in his mouth and drool running down his chin. 

He just couldn't trust his own memory. He had to look somewhere else. To be sure. 

Peter didn’t like computers. He had one in his flat out of pure necessity. It was the first time in his life he was glad that he had once purchased one though, and learnt how to look things up on the internet. He had no trouble remembering  Mikaele's full  name- Mikaele Salesa \- The memory wasn’t old enough for him to have forgotten. And sure enough, he quickly found old university pictures. He sighed in relief to see that he and Elias looked nothing alike.  Mikaele wasn’t  bas looking- He just had a plain, forgettable face when compared to Elias, whose face Peter could draw from memory. And he had. Occasionally, during sleepless nights, he sat down and he drew whatever came to him. It was a habit from his teenage years. 

These days, of course, it was often Elias that came to mind. Peter’s mind strayed several times to these drawings as he tried to reminisce. He did his best to conjure up his older memories, but he couldn’t remember the names or faces, or even the address of the two other boys from his dreams. He gave up, in the e nd. Thinking about Elias made him happy. It cleared his thoughts and made him feel like all his troubles were meaningless so long as he had him.  It was concerning. It was beautiful. Peter wanted to stop thinking at all. Too many contradiction. He just wanted to enjoy the warmth...

A week  passed; and Peter was absolutely restless.  More dreams came to him.  Questions filled his mind. He didn’t feel bad, per say, he still felt that warmth, still felt intensely satisfied about his new life. But there were things that even that couldn’t drown out.

Peter feared the implication of it. 

For every thought he had; it all seemed to come back to Elias. What he felt for him was  blurring boundaries in his mind. Dreams and memories. Reality and thoughts. He didn't like it. It was too conflicted. Why couldn't he simply enjoy that blissful warmth? 

But the warmth seemed harder and harder to grasp.  With each thought he tried to quiet, each dream or memory he tried to make sense of, it seemed to slip away from him. 

What then, would it simply erode and leave him, just like that? Peter would not have it. Elias had  _ promised  _ him that it wouldn't leave. And of  course; He was nowhere to be found outside of his dreams. Peter didn't know if he could ask him about it. Wouldn't he just lie, say whatever was  convenient ? Or simply remain evasive as he always did? Peter needed the truth. He needed that feeling to stay. Elias was  the only one with the answer.

He did wonder why Elias  hadn’t yet made an appearance .  He always did. Had he finally grown tired of toying with Peter?  Panic settled in  that night, And Peter couldn't just stay still. He left his flat to go to church . He needed to find Elias. To see him, talk to him. Get answers. Be reassured.  Peter knew that he wouldn't find him by staying in his flat and waiting. The church was his best bet.

It was a foggy night. Seeing through the fog was near impossible. Yet when he approached the Church, seeing became effortless. Peter unlocked the door. It creaked open, a sound Peter was used too, but it always felt like he was disturbing the silence whenever he opened it anyway. It closed with another  drawn out  creaking noise, and finally closed, leaving Peter alone in the small church, and yet without light, it seemed far too vast. The High ceiling looked like a bottomless pit of darkness, and the path between the pews stretching towards the altar seemed to stretch on even beyond its destination. Peter made his way to the altar without hesitation. He did note that a single candle was still lit- Far from enough against the shadows of night. 

Elias was there. Just waiting. Like he knew. He always knew.

Peter walked up to him, and he realised that he had been walking so fast he was out of breath. He stopped right in front of Elias, staring at his face swallowed by the dark. His eyes were adjusting, but it was a new moon, and so no matter how hard he tried, Peter couldn’t see the shape of him clearly. It made him anxious. ‘Dearest Peter. You look like  _ hell _ .’ Peter heard the smile in his voice. His captivating, confident voice.  Peter had missed it in the past few days.  Then Elias sighed, and with a wave of his hand, the candle on the altar lit up, it burnt bright. Too bright for it to be natural. Elias had his back on it, and the shadow it cast on his face moved whenever he spoke. ‘Much better. Now, tell me, why all the theatrics?’

Peter laughed at that. ‘You say, as if I’m the one being dramatic right now.’ His laughed died quickly though. Elias did seem amused, at least. ‘Touché. Are you still going to tell me why you were looking for me?’

‘ Dreams.’ Peter said. he swallowed back his anxiety and continued. ‘ It's those bloody dreams. Or memories. Maybe they're just thought? You're in all of them. I- don't know.  ’ Elias stepped forward. He cupped Peter’s face in his warm hands, so gently, Peter couldn’t help but lean into the touch and sigh. It eased Peter’s panic and anxiety, washed it all and all of a sudden, his thoughts were so much clearer. ‘Now explain yourself.’ Elias instructed calmly. Peter took a deep breath. ‘ You're  everywhere in my mind. And recently in my memories to. There isn't  one good memory that you're not part of. But they're not real; are they? I didn't know you. It can't be. ’

Elias hummed thoughtfully, dropping his hands to his sides. ‘Tell me  about those dreams .’

It only occurred to Peter that, just maybe, Elias hadn’t seen his dreams. He had no idea of the extent of what Elias knew, of what was shared between them, and what was purely Peter’s. By now, it felt natural that Elias would just  _ know _ . He was always there at the right time, at the right place. Always knew what troubled Peter’s mind. 

Peter told him about his dreams, about his memory. Elias listened. He never once looked bored or judgmental, which was more than could be said of all the social workers and priests and doctors Peter had talked to in his life. It felt … foreign. To be heard, seen, but not judged. At the end though, Elias smiled. It wasn’t a mocking smile. ‘I see.’

‘Is something- Wrong ? They're not real, are they ?’ Peter asked. He had considered it. He had been considering it for a while.  Elias had said that something had failed. Maybe it was all coming undone. 

‘You’re simply making... new connections , Peter. I'm certain that  you and I have never met before recently.’ Elias licked his lips. ‘I would have remembered it.’

‘ Then _ - _ _ Why won't it stop? _ ’ Peter was desperate.  ‘You said that I would be  _ fine _ as long as I embraced  _ your _ love. And I do. I try to. So why do these thoughts and  memories and dreams haunt me?

‘ Poor  Peter- it's hard isn't it ? T o be experiencing something so foreign that your mind can't wrap itself around it . A love like that ... Your mind simply tries to rationalise it. ’ Elias grinned, it appeared to bring him great satisfaction. Pride, almost. ‘ It's not  _ my _ love you struggle to embrace, dearest one. It's  _ yours _ .’

And as he said that,  It  al l clicked in place. 

He was the one who made it all difficult. 

When he thought about them,  These weren’t  really  _ good _ memories .  Nor were they bad. But they were  _ important. _ That's why he saw Elias was in them. 

Peter had been unable to get what he wanted at the time. Or to understand what he wanted at the time. He had seen his first love mocked and denied. His aspiration for freedom and admiration nipped in the bud. He had relentlessly shut down all and any questions on his faith and his dedication to take his vows, and repressed his true desires.

Memories of his past, wasted life.

A life that  Elias had made it all  better; he had made Peter's life feel good and he had given him a purpose . And his dream were just that. Elias making al l of that  _ right _ . M aking Peter's love real, welcomed . Bringing him freedom without betrayal.  Answering his questions and letting  him express his desires. And  Peter loved  Elias for it.  That was the meaning of it all, and the  reason He loved him.

Peter looked at  Elias in a new way as he realised that. He was well aware of what Elias was- Or what he assumed he was- He knew, somewhere inside of him that he shouldn’t trust him. That he shouldn’t love him. Taking Elias’ gift, his  _ love _ , abandoning himself to the feeling it gave him, it was all one thing. But loving the man, the demon. Abandoning himself to him, was another. And it was the one thing he had denied himself the right to. He had to be smart about it, didn’t he?

And yet, after everything- How could Peter not  _ love _ him? How could he not place his trust in him? The church loved that cognitive dissonance ‘Hate the sin, not the sinner’ But it was such hypocrisy. Peter couldn’t mistrust Elias and take his love at the same time, just like you couldn’t hate a sin without hating the one who dwells in it. He had been a hypocrite, now he realised. He had been too proud, too, to presume that he could take and give nothing of himself, aside from his body. When he had been giving Elias much more than that, all that time. He had once again tried to hide the truth to himself. Not anymore. He couldn’t anymore. Pride wasn’t worth it. Elias was all he had, and he had given him so much.

Peter lowered his gaze. ‘You were right. I doubted  you. I didn’t want to believe that I could truly... Love you. That-’ Peter stopped before he said more. Elias understood. He knew he did. He saw it in his smile. 

Elias pressed their foreheads together. Peter closed his eyes. A weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The memories and dreams seemed to slowly dissipate. They would haunt him no more. The warmth washed it all away, the fear and the anxiety and the shame and the guilt. It was all Elias’ doing. Peter knew that. It was his love that he felt at that moment. ‘Look at me, Peter.’ Peter looked up, he gazed into Elias’ impossibly bright eyes. It always seemed to change shades whenever he stared  a them too long, the green swirled around the pupil, like clouds in a storm, lightning changing their colours each time it struck. ‘Do you still doubt me? Do you still doubt your love for me?’ Elias asked gravely. 

‘Not  anymore. ’ Peter answered. It had been much easier to say it aloud than he had thought. Everything seemed so much easier with Elias there. ‘Do you love me, Peter?’

‘I do. I love you. I need you. ’

Elias chuckled fondly, stroking Peter’s cheek. ‘ Then you have no reason to doubt or worry.  You will have it as long as you need it. And I will take yours as long as I need it. Those are the only terms of our love.’ Peter nodded solemnly at that. Terms. Could they be called terms, when they weren't bound by anything but will? It didn’t matter, in the end, because Peter was fine with any of his terms. All he needed was that love. And only Elias could give it to him.

That night, when he was finally claimed by sleep, Peter had another dream. A last memory. He was in the Church where he had taken his vows. The crowd around him was quiet and made of shadows. But he could see their eyes on him. Judging. He was afraid. Afraid that they would see through his facade. Afraid they would see his weakness. The Bishop spoke. Peter listened; but he couldn't make sense of the words. All he wanted was to be done with it. 

It was Peter's turn to speak. He heard the sound of eyes moving in their sockets; hundred of them.  It was a grating; horrifying sound. Peter opened his mouth to say the words. Speak his vows.

Then the door of the Church opened. The large doors didn't let any light in at all. It only let it more shadows. More eyes. But in their midst was Elias. Peter could see his features clearly. He was naked, white, pale skin in the midst of the darkness. He glided across the room, and when he touched Peter, everything else stopped to matter. He knew that the Bishop was there. He knew that there was a crowd. But he kissed him anyway. He gathered him into his arms, and gently laid him down on the ground before the crowd. Peter knew they judged. He heard the eyes move and saw them convulse in outrage as he entered Elias; moaning in abandon. But he didn't care. His chest was alight with white, warm light. And it grew with each  thrust of his hips, with each call of Elias' name. Until his whole body was light, and he came, finally Becoming one with Elias, connected body and soul until he felt, heard and saw nothing that wasn't Elias. 

The following month, Peter spent more time on his  own- With Elias, of course.  He hardly had any to spare for anyone or anything else . He didn't put as much thoughts in his church duties- He cared little for them at all. Elias started to show up in his flat ,  too. There seemed to be no place in Peter's world that out of  his reach. Outside or inside . It would have worried him once upon a time.  He had never been keen on sharing his personal space with anyone.  Now when he  a woke feeling a warm body next to his own,  he felt happy. He felt content. And on these days, he often ended up cancelling mass. God was the least of his concerns when he was in the presence of  the man who had made his days so much more than they used to be. He pretended to be sick, and everyone left it at that.  His doctor did ask questions, and to her he just said that he was struggling with his drinking problem. Going on and off was reason enough for feeling sick once in a while, and she didn't press the matter further.

Oddly enough, He hadn't heard from the Bishop or anyone else of note , either .  If anything; his increasing number of absence should have only alarmed them further after the meeting he had had with Father Perry. Not that it mattered whether he kept the church or not.

When Peter stood in his church these days, he didn't feel anything. He used to feel something. Dedication, fear, shame- Now it was just a place like any other. It was cold, hostile and empty. He felt the same upon reading the scriptures- All the threats of eternal damnation didn't scare him anyone. And the hopeful ones he knew to be lies. Some of the most beautiful ones though, reminded him of Elias. Those speaking of God's love. Those that spoke of an endless, fulfilling love that only a divine being could make you feel. Love that touched your soul so deeply you would never want to walk away from it. Those passages were the only ones he could use to pray anymore.

It was another quiet night. Neither rain, nor wind, nor chants disturbed the holy silence Peter found himself in. The light of the candles was as pale as it had always been, and the shadows as stark. Once Peter had found them eerie, those shadow worshipers. Now he appreciated them. Unlike his congregation, the shadows didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt him in his prayers and didn’t pry. They watched, and they loomed, never to interact. Peter prayed. He was sitting in the church, eyes closed. He still had the taste of the wine and the host in his mouth from taking communion an hour ago, after the evening mass. Dreadful taste. At least praying felt good.

_ And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love,  _

_ may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ,  _

_ and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. _

Those words were wrong. They spoke to Peter on a deeply intimate level. Yet it wasn’t God’s love he thought of. Peter had never felt God’s love. Not even the shadow of it. He couldn’t help but think about all those people who spoke of their belief; Of how they had fallen in love with their God after they had heard His call, or felt His light, His love on them, filling them. Peter had joined the Catholic Church because he had been  _ afraid _ . Love had never been part of his faith.

Yet, now, he felt it. That love he had always thought to be a lie, or a gross exaggeration from the part of the Church. But it wasn’t God’s love. It was Elias. These days, it was all about  _ him _ . He was everywhere. In his dreams, in his thoughts, in his soul. Crawling on his skin, whispering in his ear and filling his sight with his perfection. 

_ He was divine. _

Elias wasn’t a God. No, not one as the collective mind of humanity conceived it. He didn’t create the world; he didn’t control the fate of the universe. But in many ways, he was so much _more._ He walked on Earth, let himself be seen and heard. He didn’t care for petty mortal sins, and his love was unconditional and infinite. The warmth, the joy, the fullness Peter felt wasn’t something he could describe even if he tried.    
When he opened his eyes, Elias stood before him. He wore an immaculate white suit. He looked _divine_. ‘Good evening, dearest Peter. I hope I'm not intruding on your prayers.’ 

Peter rose from his seat, shaking his head.  He gently took Eli as ' hand in his- so  careful, so  adoring in his gesture . ‘How could you be?  You are in my prayers .’

‘My, you certainly are in a good mood. I'm surprised, quite frankly. After what happened today.’ Elias said. He didn't seem surprised at all.

Truth be told, Peter had hardly spared a thought for the events of today. Getting punched in the face by a grieving husband wasn't exactly a  frequent  occurrence ; but it was hardly surprising. Grief was the  strangest thing. It made people resort to all sort of irrational behaviours. Punching the priest officiating the funeral for  looking to o... unbothered was one of them, it seemed. 

Peter shrugged. ‘I have other things in mind.’

‘ And what are you thinking about that is so important ,  Pray tell ? ’ Elias  asked, smiling casually, like he didn't know it was him Peter thought about . 

Peter looked at the cross over Elias' shoulder. It was such bad taste, when he thought about it, to expose the sculptures of a dying man  in churches for all to  ogle and pity.  ‘ I was thinking about  my God.’ Peter said. 

The corner if Elias' mouth twitched , though his smile didn't vanish, he looked much less pleased now . He raised an eyebrow. ‘ your God?’

‘ What makes a God?’ Peter said. ‘ Is it  omniscience, omnipotence ?  Or is it the followers? Their love , Their faith ?’ 

Elias grinned. ‘An interesting question.  What do you think?’

‘I think the  latter is as true as the first. ’ His gaze fell upon Elias' face .  Peter felt...  weak. Insignificant when he looked at him. But in the most comforting way. He could place his life in his hand and he knew that  so long as he  _ loved _ him, it would all be worth it. Whatever  happened to him didn't matter. He would be able to move forward; always.  ‘I believe in God, I suppose. But he will never have my faith, or my love.’

Elias' eyes seemed to burn with anticipation. His grin grew larger by the second, slowly revealing sharp fangs. Peter didn ’ t mind those things anymore. The inhumanity he saw in Elias had stopped  frightening him. Now it only  fuelled his fascination for him . 

‘Because you have it all. ’ Peter said, his voice was barely  more than a whisper now.  ‘I love you. I  _ adore _ you.’  Peter fell to his knees before him.

And Elias grinned.  A bright; white smile in the darkness.  ‘ Do you  love me as you do God, Peter? ’

‘ I love you more than I ever loved Him.’

Elias grabbed Peter's chin. He looked down at him with  a dark fire burning in his eyes, a fire that threatened to consume all.  Pride.  Greed. Lust.  All of it clear on Elias' face.  ‘Then it's  time for you to take communion.’ 

_ Communion _ .  To consume the flesh and blood, become one with the body of your God.  Such a holy ritual. Peter trembled at the idea. Elias placed his hand on Peter's head;  in his hair , petting his head , blessing  him, purifying him .  ‘Do you know what  to do?’

The heat  emanating from that Holy touch  filled Peter's mind . He knew what to do.  He unbuttoned Elias' pants, pulled down his underwear , with the same care and dedication he put to prepare the altar, to pour the wine  and dip his fingers into holy water. 

Then he took Elias in his mouth.  He closed his eyes in bliss, but not for long, he wanted to look upon His face  as he took his communion.  Peter wanted to see  Elias' face as he took  H is length inside his mouth and  worship p ed him with his tongue.  He wanted to see the pleasure on his face as he pushed him inside his throat until he was full.

‘ _ Worship me, Peter. Take your communion, drink it all in, and  _ _ relish in the love of your God.’  _ Elias said; as his fingers dug in Peter's scalp. He  pulled his hair, his grip on him strong and  possessive. Peter felt  the burning sharp pain of every pull of his hair ,  he felt the sharp sting  of nails pushing into his skull. , and the pain he felt made him shiver in pleasure. It was a sign of Elias'  passion, his love; and he would take it all. Pain, pleasure- It  didn’t make any difference. It was his love and Peter  wanted every drop of it.

Elias made sounds that  sounded like prayers to Peter's ears , a crescendo of moans that made his  skin crawl with pleasure. And when it reached its highest  point; when  Elias came into his mouth, Peter  drank it all in.  Like a parched man at a well, licking every drop of water  even as the well had dried up, leaving only wet soil. 

Elias' hand  lifted from Peter's head. Elias was smiling. Peter smiled too,  he felt the drool on his chin and his throat  felt  _ raw _ _. _ ‘ _ Beautiful _ .’ Elias breathed,  his smile widening, fangs and eyes shining in the darkness. ‘Do you feel my love inside of you, Peter? Isn't it wonderful? ’

‘ It's- Amazing. Beautiful.’ Peter's voice was hoarse; it hurt to speak. But he felt so warm. So content.  Like he had been bathed in holy water and blessed so thoroughly he was made into another man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that one- Honestly It took me a lot of time to write and I'm still not quite satisfied, and I don't think I'll ever be.   
> But it had to come out one way or another!  
> Oh and don't worry- This is not the end. Merely the beginning of Peter's misadventures.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That chapter is short, I know!  
> Not everything has to be lengthy, gotta keep a part of mystery.
> 
> TW for mentions of drug abuse and violence

The church bell rang as a newlywed couple exited the church. The happy cheers of the crowd gathered around seemed to be filling the air, rice and flowers were thrown on the place outside, and their happiness seemed to leave nobody unmoved. Peter watched from inside as the bride threw her bouquet into the crowd of her gathered friends and family members, the one who caught it smiled meekly and handed it to the overly excited woman next to her. 

Peter stayed there a moment, he watched the crowd, but quickly grew tired of it. His eyes turned to the surroundings, to that beautiful, spotless blue sky, and the utter stillness of nature. The trees and grass were unmoved by that human agitation, only the wind could ever move them, and the wind was absent. The cold was still there, though much more bearable under that shining sun. If there were any birds, their song could not be heard over the loud crowd. Maybe there weren’t any, anyway. It would feel wrong, something moving and alive in all that still and dead nature. 

Peter closed the heavy church door and silence fell again inside his church. Blessed silence. He didn’t hate weddings, he just cared as much about all that happiness as he cared about all the sadness of burials or the solemnity of baptisms. None of these feelings were his- He was just supervising them from the outside. And it was fine by him.

His own feelings were more than enough for him these days. Stronger than whatever love and happiness the two people he had just married felt at that moment. He had nothing to envy them, nothing to despise them for anymore. 

He had his own happiness. The thought made him smile.

Later that day, two people walked in in the middle of the mass. They sat down at the back, making more noise than was required. Peter stared at them as he tried to continue his sermon. The youngest man of the two lowered his head in shame. The other didn’t seem to notice, or pretended not to. Peter was almost done. It was a sermon and the rebirth of the soul through faith in God. Peter tried to not think too hard about the irony of his words, for he had been reborn through faith indeed. God just had nothing to do with it. 

Peter spoke of hardships, and about destruction. All that came before you finally were saved. How you had to see the darkest corners of the world to be able to see the brightest. It was an extremely satisfying sermon- It almost felt like he was preaching to them about his very own god. He wished he could tell them about the beauty of him, of his love. But it was his secret to keep. And it was just as good, that Elias was his, and his alone. It made Peter feel special, something he had never felt before, unremarkable as he had been. Always the loner, never bad or good enough to be special, not even in the eyes of God. Maybe he was just selfish.

At the end of his sermon, people left quite fast.  _ Thank God. _ An old couple did come to shake Peter’s hand, thanking him for his sermon, but didn’t linger for a conversation. He saw the two men he had seen earlier leave without a word as well. He had never seen them before, and that was enough to make them  suspicious. 

Peter kept an eye on them whenever they showed up. They came to mass a few times, more often late than not. Then he saw them praying together after mass. The younger man couldn't have been much over eighteen, and the other was perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties. From their physical appearance as well as the way the younger of the two seemed to be following the other's lead, Peter gathered that they were probably related. They didn't have a very healthy relationship either, from the look of it. More than once it seemed that the older man was physically dragging the young one inside the church. Until he didn't need to anymore.

They were an oddity, for sure. It had the merit of making things eventful whenever Peter was on his own during the day. Though they quickly left his mind once Elias graced him with his presence. He seemed to be getting  _ brighter  _ every day. When he was in the room, he became the only thing that Peter could see. He wasn't just standing there- He was filling the very space around him with his presence. There was just no place for anything else but him. 

There were days Peter wanted to leave everything behind. Stop pretending to be a half-decent priest, stop pretending to love God when the only one he loved was Elias. He wanted to leave that dull village and start anew, where no one knew him, where he could pretend he had never taken his vows. ‘You will leave this place. But not now. I wouldn’t want you to act on a whim and find yourself on the streets.’ Elias said when Peter brought up that topic. His fingers caressing Peter’s bare chest, messing with the white hair there as he continued to whisper in Peter’s ear. ‘I have much better plans for you. But you must be patient.’ Elias warm breath against his ear sent shivers down his spine. Peter sighed and nodded. Peter had no idea what Elias had in mind for him, but he was fine with waiting for it- anything so long as Elias was with him.

It was a Saturday morning, mass had just ended, and the two men Peter had been keeping a distracted eye on approached him. The younger one kept his head low, and the other spoke for him. He introduced himself as Dave Harrington, and his younger brother as Steve. He spoke harshly, loudly and with an irritating and with an irritating unearned confidence- Exactly the type of individuals who hung out in pubs to watch football games and got drunk until they got too violent and had to be kicked out. Nonetheless, Peter did his best to listen. 

Dave explained how his younger brother had ‘gone off the right path’, and had started doing drugs and neglecting his family. Their single mother had then decided that Steve needed to go to church and start putting his faith in God so he may be helped and forgiven. Dave was therefore chaperoning him while he did just that. Steve himself didn’t say a word, only averted his eyes, obviously ashamed of having his life story told to a stranger like he wasn’t even there. Peter knew what that felt like. He couldn’t help but empathise with him on some level. ‘I think it would help if you talked to him, you know. I’ve tried to drill some sense into that thick skull of his, but he just won’t listen to his big brother.’ Dave said, he glared at his brother as he continued. ‘He wouldn’t be so stubborn if it was a priest talking to him.’ 

Peter accepted. It wasn’t like he could say no even if he wanted to. Thus, he found himself in the office, sitting across a very anxious young man with a drug problem and a pushy family who wanted him to put himself in God. Peter was no therapist. He was no councillor. And he wasn’t God’s servant anymore. After a few tense seconds of silence, Peter did come up with something to say. ‘Do you believe in God?’ Steve jumped at the question. ‘Well, I mean. My family is. So I guess... Yes. I believe he exists?’

‘Do you think praying helps?’ 

‘My family does?’

Peter sighed. ‘I didn’t ask what your family thinks. I’m asking you what you think.’

‘Oh. I’m... Not really sure how it’s supposed to help, honestly. But Dave says I’m just not trying hard enough.’ Steve said, fidgeting with a pencil he picked up on Peter’s desk.  Clearly what that boy needed wasn’t a priest, or faith, but a therapist.

‘That’s not how it works.’ Peter sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was aware that as a priest, he was meant to help people gain faith in God. He was supposed to tell Steve that truly believing in God, placing his faith in him would bring him peace. That if he tried hard enough to believe, then he would feel better. But he just didn’t have it in him to pout such lies to a vulnerable young man. He knew too well the consequences of such words. ‘What do you mean?’ Steve sounded a little bit worried. Peter realised he had been silent for too long. ‘If you don’t feel that faith, then trying to make yourself  _ believe _ will only make you miserable. Love and faith are not something you can force or choose. You feel them or you don’t.’ Peter said.

Steve stared at him, mouth hanging open like Peter had just revealed a shocking secret. Perhaps in a way, he had. It didn’t matter. That was the truth of it. A truth Peter wished he had been told when he was younger. ‘So, what can I do?’ 

Peter shrugged. ‘See a doctor, or someone else for the drug problem. Something that will actually help.’ Steve laughed nervously at that. ‘I don’t really have a problem with drugs. I smoke weed with friends sometimes, that’s all there is really.’

‘Then just- lay off it for a while?’ Peter didn’t really know what to say. That guy was just a young adult having fun, with a terribly overbearing family. There was nothing he could do or that he cared to do. Maybe Steve was lying, even. Peter didn’t even care about that. It was Steve’s problem, not his.

Conversation stopped short after that, and Peter escorted Steve back to his brother. Steve seemed in a much better mood, and that was enough for Dave to shake Peter’s hand and thank him. Blessed are the ignorant. Peter watched them leave and let out a sigh of relief once they were gone. He hoped it wouldn’t happen again. Too much human interaction to his taste. 

After that Peter didn’t see them at church at all. He didn’t make much of  it. After all, his part in it was done. 

Or so he thought.

It wasn’t a good day. The weather was grey and rain threatened to pour down. Another funeral, another sea of mourners  clad in black. And just as many sweaty, pallid hands to shake. Most of these people would soon be joining their relative in the grave. There wasn’t one of them who wasn’t shaking too much, whose eyes betrayed a failing liver or couldn’t even move around without the help of a slightly younger or healthier family member or spouse. Peter wondered how many of them he would bury. How many of their children and grandchildren. It seemed as if he would all see them die one by one until he was the only one left.

The thought was short lived as a man cut through the crowd of mourners leaving the graveyard, heading straight towards Peter. He didn’t have much time to react before that man punched him square in the face. Peter staggered backward, stunned by the sheer force of the blow. He managed to catch himself right before he fell on one of the old, decrepit graves, his hands grasping for support on the cold, slippery stone. He reached for his throbbing nose, and his hand came in contact with what he immediately understood was blood. Hot and wet, too thick to be water, and left a taste of iron as it dripped from his nose to his mouth. He looked down at his hand, at the red staining it, bright, vivid red where the sunlight hit it. He thought it was beautiful.

Soon a crowd had gathered around him. He heard the man scream at him, and saw people holding him back. Someone else screamed to call the police, but the man eventually left. It was only once he was gone that Peter realised who it had been. Dave Harrington. It started raining. People were fussing around Peter, touching him, speaking too loud and too close. He pushed them all away, got up, assured that he was fine, and staggered out of the graveyard, back to the safety of his church, far from the crowd.

Nobody followed. It was just as well. Peter went to his office and closed the door behind him. He removed his priest garb and used his shirt to stop the blood. It was messy, but he didn’t have anything else for that. He could have gone home, but he was too stunned to do that. His nose eventually stopped bleeding, and he was now aware of how painful it was whenever he touched it. He groaned as he checked the bridge of his nose for anomalies. And sure enough, there was a very painful swelling there. He hoped it wasn’t broken, a trip to the hospital would be more trouble than it was worth. For now, he just wanted to rest; Enjoy the calm and quiet around him. He closed his eyes and focused on the sound of rain hitting the window. 

Maybe he should have cared more about the reason behind the assault. But he didn’t. He supposed it was because of what he had said to Steve, that was enough for him. The why didn’t matter in the end. Even the result hardly mattered. It was just a flesh wound, and Peter had inflicted on himself much worse recently. It was only a fleeting disagreement, and it didn’t disturb his peace of mind the least bit. He was feeling just as fine as he had before- A bit shaken from the inevitable rush of adrenaline; but fine in all other respects. 

Warmth wash over Peter- and he knew that Elias was there even before he felt a warm hand brush against his cheek. He slowly opened his eyes and the pain he had felt vanished- like purged by scalding, unseen flames. A much different sort of pain, but one that Peter gladly accepted, barely making a sound through his clenched teeth. And then relief. Elias frowned.

‘Ah, look at what happens when I leave you for a day. You get your beautiful face damaged in a fight.’ He smiled innocently. ‘Did you win?’

Peter chuckled weakly. ‘I was hardly a fight. I think I upset one of  God’s faithful with my words. And turned another away from Him. And I got  punched for it.’

Elias’ smile grew larger upon hearing that. He sat across Peter’s lap, with all the grace of a feline. He also had the same predatory look in his eyes. ‘Such boldness, Peter. You truly do not fear  _ Him  _ anymore, do you? I knew I had found the right man the moment I saw you.’ Peter found himself speechless, drowned by the flow of words that came out of his mouth. They were sweet as honey, and as sharp and precise as knives. Carving at his very soul in the best of ways, cutting off all that was dark and cold and making it burning bright. Elias laughed, and Peter caught a glimpse of his sharp canines. ‘You could call it love at first sight.’ 

When Peter looked back, when he remembered the first time he had laid eyes on Elias- He realised that it was probably at that moment that his fate had been sealed. From the moment he laid eyes on him, the moment he heard his voice, even- He became his. There had been no choice from the beginning. It was always going to end that way. For how could anyone remain unaffected after encountering the closest thing there was to the divine on that Earth?

‘Love at first sight...’ Peter muttered. Didn’t quite sound right. But that was the best way to describe it with words. So he nodded in agreement. It would have to do. ‘Something like that, yes.’

Elias chuckled and unfastened Peter’s belt; his hand sliding inside his trousers. Peter closed his eyes, sighing Elias’ name. He let himself be slowly carried away by the waves of pleasure and bliss that came over him. Elias’ touch felt even warmer than usual. It was hot, so hot it almost burnt, but it didn’t. ‘See this as your reward. For making me  _ proud _ .’ Elias whispered. 

_ Proud _ . The feeling that filled Peter’s chest at that moment could not be described. He buried his face in the crook of Elias’ neck, holding him close. The word echoed in his mind like the bell that rung above the church. He closed his eyes and whispered a ‘Thank you’ that came from deep within his heart. Elias kissed his hair, chuckling. Peter could feel Elias’ smile. His eyes were closed, but he could see Elias’ bright eyes, the curve of his lips-barely concealing those dangerous fangs. He could see the shape of his face, every curve and angle of it, and the way light danced over it. His image was burnt into his brain now. He didn’t need to look to  _ see _ him. And sometimes, it wasn’t that face __ he saw, it was another- Another face of his.

Of course, the police came around. Peter sent them away. He told them it was alright, that nobody had been hurt. They left as soon as they had come. It was less work for them that way. Rumours soon started to fester, changing as the word passed from one person to another. He actually got a text from the Sunday School teacher, asking him if he was alright and what had happened with Dave. He ignored it. He wouldn’t give her anything to feed her voyeuristic thirst for the latest ‘tea’. Peter saw how people look at him differently. Some were oddly compassionate when they greeted him at church, asking in those sickeningly sweet voices how Peter was feeling. Others stared and looked away when they were seen. 

On many occasions, Peter could have listened in to their conversations, they spoke to loud, the old gossiping ladies that came to church. Peter could hear all of it. But he never listened. He didn’t care. He let them speak, let them think what they wanted. Their opinion and judgment didn’t matter. Only one opinion, one judgement did. And he knew it to be in his favour. He didn’t regret a single second to have told that young man the truth, in spite of consequences. If it had made Elias proud, then it was all he needed. And he would do it again, just to hear him say those words once more. 

Peter went on with his week, acting like nothing had even happened. He ignored it all, because he didn’t care. After a few days, it seemed like the rumours were starting to die down. Peter had expected to never have to hear of it again, that people would stop bothering him over it. Perhaps it was too much to hope for. 

The second he realised Doctor Tellison was standing before him, he knew something unpleasant was about to happen. 

She had headed straight for Peter as he locked the church door behind him, about to head back home. It took him a while to recognise her, he was still a bit dazed from his time with Elias mere moments ago, and the darkness didn’t help. The street lights around the church were too few and too weak to light the surroundings properly during moonless nights. 

It felt like she had come out of nowhere. ‘Good evening, Father Lukas.’ She said. Peter cleared his throat. ‘Good evening, doctor.’ His voice broke mid-sentence, his throat was sore, and speaking was a strain on it. He coughed a bit in his hand, and continued. ‘What can I do for you?’ He wondered if it was about her mother. Probably not. She wouldn’t have waited to catch Peter alone to talk about that. ‘Sounds like a nasty cold.’ She said. Peter wanted to laugh at that, instead he grimaced and waved off the remark. ‘Just a bit of a sore throat.’ Thankfully, she didn’t press the matter further.

‘Look, I’m going to go straight to the point. Have you started drinking again?’ 

Of course, she would ask about  _ that. _

‘I haven’t.’ It was a half-truth. Peter still had the occasional drink- He simply didn’t get drunk anymore. He didn’t need to. Doctor  Tellison shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but I find that hard to believe. You haven’t spoken to any of the doctors I recommended, or even went to AA- And your recent behaviour doesn’t help your case, either.’ Peter scoffed. ‘I’m not lying doctor. I haven’t been drinking in excess. If you’re talking about that incident with Mr.  Harrington, he was the one who assaulted me unprovoked.’

She sighed, and passed a hand through her curls. ‘I know Dave, so on that one, I do believe you. But it’s not just that. You’re not acting right. Do you realise what time it is?’ Peter didn’t answer. Simply because he had no idea what time it was, and it was too dark to check his watch. ‘It’s almost half past eleven.’ She said. ‘I just lost track of time.’ Peter answered dryly. He was rightfully annoyed by the suspicion and invasive questions. Why did she care? If Peter wanted to get hammered every night, then it was his decision. He had stopped drinking, and he was doing better too, he felt much better.  So, what was it about? Him being happier was suspicious? That would be laughable if it wasn’t utterly depressing a thought: People being so used to seeing others miserable that when these people were happy, they found it weird. 

‘You lose track of time a lot? Do you sleep?’ She asked

Peter snapped at her. ‘what more do you want me to say? I’ve already told you that I don’t drink anymore. I haven’t had a drop of alcohol today.’ He spoke a bit too loud, and his voice broke again. He cleared his throat, and took a deep breath to calm down. There was no need for such a scene.

‘Have you been taking something else? Any drugs-?’ The question was genuine as could be. That actually made Peter laugh in disbelief. ‘ _ Drugs _ ? You think I’m on drugs? Why do even you care if I’m on drugs or not?’ 

‘I’m your doctor. It’s my responsibility to act if I think one of my patients exhibits concerning signs of substance abuse.’ Doctor  Tellison said, deadpan. She crossed her arms over her chest, not amused in the least bit. In the darkness, Peter could see the concerned lines on her face. He composed himself. ‘You can sleep easy, doctor. I’m not on any kind of drugs. No  drug could make me feel like that.’

‘How do you feel?’ She asked, far from reassured.

‘Happy.’ Peter said. 

He left her there. He was done with that conversation. With all of them, really. He didn’t understand the suspicion. He didn’t understand why they all felt the need to meddle. They had never even tried to get to know him before. They had no reason to. And it was fine like that. He preferred when they remained strangers.

He went home, and he once again spent a sleepless night lost in his thoughts. Thoughts that felt like dreams, light, warm and pleasant, and so very  _ real _ . When he woke up from these thoughts, he realised he must have had fallen asleep at some point. But he couldn’t tell when; or if he had really slept. He wasn’t tired. And Elias was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did it feel uneventful?  
> I hope not.  
> I actually wrote something funny in that one, I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Ah and I encourage you to leave kuddos and comments if you enjoy that fic! remember:  
> Feedback feeds the writer's creativity, in return you are fed by the fruits of that creativity.  
> (Translation because the metaphor is weird: No feedback, makes the writer sad. )


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me again, trying to get through the writing as fast as I can before the start of S5.  
> TW for choking (consensual), Peter being a sub, and some sexy stuff. As always, you'll see it coming, and it's not too graphic.  
> Enjoy!

Spring had come at last. Nature came alive, after it had held its breath for so long.  Flowers bloomed; the dirt in the field sprouted green foliage, and  soon the landscape was completely changed. The browns and greys of winter were replaced by  bright colours; that couldn't be dampened  even  by the rainiest day.

Everything was coming back to life.  The world was reborn anew. It had been Peter's least favourite season. But that year, he  found himself unders tanding its appeal , and  appreciating its beauty.

That day, the weather was  pleasant .  A comfortable warmth; and no wind to ruin it. It was cloudy- But the sky was blue beyond the  clouds. W henever the sun peeked through them , it projected colours all over the church- Red, blue,  yellow- Artificial colours but  colours nonetheless. It was beautiful. Like a painting of light on the grey stone of the church and dull, worn out brown of  wood of its pews . 

Peter was lost in thought; staring at the light on the floor. It was late morning, and the middle of the week, so the church was utterly empty. Not a soul in sight. He didn’t expect to see anyone today, outside of the scheduled mass, and even then, not many would attend. It was satisfying to be alone on such a nice day, perhaps Peter would even be able to leave earlier than usual, while the sun was still up, and go for a walk- Or just go home and stare at the streets below, watch people come and go, attending to their daily tasks with the same hurry and diligence as ants scuttling about looking for a piece of discarded food.

Peter was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of the door creaking opens. He heard footsteps- energetic, irregular \- The tap of a cane hitting the stone accompanied them. A man came to sit next to Peter. His perfume was familiar. Something strong- Extravagant. Just like the man's outfit. Peter couldn’t believe it. After all these years, it seemed ridiculous. Maybe his mind was deceiving him. Hz looked up at the man. It wasn’t a trick of his mind. 

He was so old.  Time hadn’t spared him, and it had changed his face considerably. But Peter recognized him. 

Simon Fairchild. 

Peter immediately straightened up in his seat- Utterly shocked by the presence of the man before him. The one who had, all those years ago, saved him from a tragic fate. He tried to say something, but just sat there, mouth hanging open in disbelief. Simon laughed, a light, cheerful laugh that never carried even so much as the shadow of judgement. It was always genuine. ‘Surprised I'm not dead? I am too, trust me!’ He winked at Peter. It was unbelievable how lively he was for an old man who must have been in his eighties. He was just as bony as Peter remembered, too. A strong gust of wind could probably sweep him off his feet.

‘No- I mean- I'm glad you’re not dead.’ Peter stammered. He still wasn't quite over the shock. It had been so long. 

Simon looked around and whistled in appreciation. The sound echoed around them. ‘That’s a nice church. Old, pretty, even. Maybe a tad too small for my taste, but then, a small church for a small village is appropriate.’ He nodded to himself. Peter remained silent. He knew better than to try to interrupt Simon Fairchild when he rambled. ‘Speaking of the village- It's really hard to find. Nothing but fields and animals around. And the signal here is  _ dreadful _ . I thought: Poor boy, he must be having a hard time there. But I remembered that it’s typically the kind of place you wanted to live in. So, congrats!’

Peter blinked. Congratulations. ‘-Thank you?’ He wasn’t sure what to say to  that. He could hardly comprehend the words that came out of Simon’s mouth. He was too busy focusing on  _ why  _ he was here. Simon chuckled, tapping his fingers on his cane. 

‘You must wonder why I’m here; I know. Well, I’m nothing but honest, so I’ll tell you.’ He marked a pause for suspense. He often did that. When Peter was younger, that always got on his nerves. Simon knew it of course.  So he always did it just on purpose. To teach him patience, or so he liked to say. ‘You know me, I dislike gossiping. But I do like listening to them, to keep myself updated on all the latest news, of course.’ He smiled. He definitely enjoyed gossiping for no other reason than it was fun. He continued. ‘I was, however, very surprised when your name came up the other day. Not in the most flattering terms, I’m afraid. Apparently, you’ve made quite an impression on good old father Perry.’ Peter lowered his gaze. He had expected it to eventually reach Simon’s ears. he had just hoped that enough time had passed that the old man was either dead or had forgotten entirely about him. Clearly, neither of these things had been true. 

‘I wasn’t-’ Peter started, but Simon raised his hand in interruption, shaking his head. ‘You know I don’t need to hear your excuses. We all have our ups and downs. And Father Perry can be quite irritating in his own right. I think that’s why they sent him.’ Simon chuckled at that. 

He always seemed so entertained by everything, but never seemed to want a part in any of it. He just did as he pleased. Perhaps that was why Peter had taken a liking to the old man. He simply seemed to be above it all, removed from the pettiness of the mass. However, his smile vanished, and he frowned. ‘I’m concerned, Peter. First that, then I hear you’ve been attacked by a member of your congregation- And I’m sure you are aware of all the other accusation as well.’ Peter sighed at that. He knew all of them. He had heard them all. He hadn’t cared until then. But when he looked at his old mentor’s face, he knew he should have. Of course, Simon didn’t look disappointed. Not yet. But he was involved now, and unlike the others, it was hard for Peter to dismiss his words or concern. It reminded him too much of the old days. 

‘I’m fine, Simon.’ Peter said. He was fine. He felt fine; better than he had ever felt. It wasn’t a lie. 

Simon nodded, and smiled. ‘I’m sure you are! You’ve always done just fine! I just wanted to check on you, in case you needed someone on your side. I think I’m getting too old to be helping you in any fights though, you’ll forgive me for that.’ That remark made Peter smile and shake his head. It was exactly like the old days. The same feeling too, like Peter had someone to rely on no matter what happened and what he did. 

‘Thank you.’ Peter said. Simon grinned at him. Then he  got up, grunting and muttering about his back. ‘I’ll be around for a while, I think. It’s a rather nice place. Fields as far as the eye can see. Reminds me of home. Unless you mind?’ 

Peter shook his head. It wasn’t like he could tell Simon what to do with his free time, anyway. ‘Wonderful. Then I’ll be seeing you!’

With that, Simon left, not without doing the sign of the cross on his way out. That too, was familiar.

Peter was left with a strong feeling of nostalgia hanging in the air around him. He felt naturally conflicted about having Simon around, watching over him. Had it been anyone, it would have made him simply angry. But it was Simon, and he hadn’t a single bad intention, he had never had. The old man did as he pleased when he pleased; if he had decided to check on peter to make sure he was doing fine- then there was nothing else to it. All peter had to do was wait, and act as he always did. Simon would leave once he was satisfied with what he saw. He would have to make an effort to stay out of trouble too, even if he didn’t necessarily do it on purpose, being careful couldn’t hurt.

In the end, Peter didn’t feel like going home early. The weather hadn’t changed, but a grey cloud seemed to have passed over his mind, obscuring his thoughts.

That evening, Peter was still troubled. He kept reminiscing about the past, about his troubled teenage years, about how he had gotten out of the mess he had found himself in when Simon offered to help him become a priest. He had paid for his  studies, he had paid for a flat and he had paid for a therapist. He had done all that just to help a random guy get off the streets. Peter still couldn’t understand why he had done all that, why he had chosen to save him of all people. Peter realised that it had probably been a waste of time and money. He was never going to be saved. Even back then, he had been too far gone for that. 

Peter had made all of Simons effort and money to be in vain. He had given up on God, on his carrier. But wasn’t it for the better? He still did work, and he didn’t even drink anymore. He had found something new to believe in. Another path, one that made him happy. Of course, if Simon knew, he wouldn’t understand. No one did. They all believed in God’s forgiveness and love, because they hadn’t been forsaken. 

Peter sighed, and he shivered when he felt the familiar presence near him, sitting next to him on the old sofa Peter had too often used as a bed. ‘You seem troubled.’ Elias said. He didn’t need to ask to know it. Peter was thankful for that. ‘It's because of that man, isn't it? I saw you with him at church today.’

Peter went stiff. He hadn't felt Elias' presence back then. He always felt it whenever Elias was around. It wasn’t something he could control either. So how had he missed it? Had he done something wrong?  Surely, he hadn’t been that distracted by Simon that he hadn’t been able to feel it. ‘I didn't notice-' Elias hushed him before he could say anymore. And he smiled, a soothing, familiar smile that eased Peter’s anxiety. ‘I can see you even when you can't see or feel me. It's one of my many skills.’ 

Peter sighed. So, it was Elias who had meant to remain concealed. He hadn’t lost touch with him at all. These days, he simply worried at the mere idea that he could lose that connection. He had felt it slip away not so long ago, and he wasn’t keen on it happening again. As a consequence, he had become especially careful and attentive to his own feelings. He made a point of not losing sight of his love, of the warmth within him. They helped him drown out any rising fear or doubts he had, even in especially challenging times. It was one such time. Nostalgia was a dangerous thing.

‘Simon is- A mentor of sorts, I suppose. I hadn't seen him in years. It just made me nostalgic.' Peter said. Elias seemed dubious. ‘Nostalgic of the time you decided to become a priest?’

Peter shrugged. There was a lot he didn't understand about his own thoughts, especially when it concerned his past. He didn't miss that  time, how could he miss being homeless and starving? How could he miss spending  sleepless night studying in fear that he would end up back on  the streets if he failed? 

No, he didn’t miss the past. But perhaps what he did miss was the connection- Having someone care for him in the way a weird; removed uncle would. Like Simon did. Offering gifts and strange, morally questionable advice. It was a simple relationship to entertain- Peter had little to do; he just had to listen and accept what he was given. It had brought some semblance of stability in his life, an anchor of sorts. Someone he could turn to when he was lost and who would get him back on track. ‘I missed  him, I think. We had a good relationship.’ Peter said. He didn't need Simon's guidance or help anymore, but that didn't mean he forgot what he had done for him all these years ago. ‘I owe him a lot.’ He added.

Elias laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘You owe him what, exactly? Years of servitude to God? Years repressing who you are?’

Peter waved off the remark. ‘ He's not to blame for any of it . Simon got me off the streets, and allowed me to do something with my life. He’s not responsible for what I chose to do with it.’ He realised too late how aggressive it had sounded. But it was simply the truth. Simon was hardly the most traditionally religious man in the world. He prayed; and he went to church, but he had his own vision of God and religion. One he had shared with Peter when he had been asked. He had never made Peter become a priest. He simply provided him with the support he needed to become one. There was nothing to blame Simon for. The only one to blame for that decision was Peter himself, and perhaps God for having been so deceptive.

Elias raised an eyebrow. He seemed genuinely surprised at first- It was the first time Peter ever talked back to him, even him hadn’t expected it. Then his face hardened. And the look on his face felt like a kick to Peter’s chest. A look of  _ disapproval _ . Peter scrambled to apologise. He didn’t know what else to do. It had never happened before. ‘I’m so sorry- I didn’t mean to-’ Peter’s voice was shaking. ‘I wasn’t- I’m so sorry, Elias.’ Peter stammered an endless stream of apologies, trying to justify himself but none of his sentences made sense. It all came out too broken.

Elias listened to his apologies quietly. Then he shook his head, and his expression softened. The shift between the deep scowl and the casual smile happened in the blink of an eye- Too fast for any transition between the two, and it left Peter reeling. ‘I understand. He did help you become who you are in a way. Your loyalty is touching. It’s one thing I love about you, after all your loyalty.’ Elias sighed heavily, for a moment he seemed genuinely tired. He reached to touch Peter's cheek, and that look vanished, replaced by one of his kind, understanding smiles, that made Peter so weak. ‘I suppose I worry. It's an odd timing for him to be coming back, for sure. I would hate for you to get hurt out of misplaced trust.’ 

Warm relief washed over Peter's mind. His body relaxed and he leaned into the touch, almost rubbing against Elias' hand to get more of it. It sounded so genuine, his worry. And Peter found no reason to doubt it. Did he not love him? Had he not made Peter's life into a peaceful, happy place despite the ruins it had become over the years? Had he not brought warmth and light into his cold, dark mind? There was no reason for him to oppose Simon. To reject Peter's feelings on that topic. Peter felt stupid for having ever been afraid of being rejected over it. But then, he had become used to that fear over the years he had served God so hopelessly. That fear of disappointment and punishment was a hard one to overcome. It had become a reflex. 

‘ If Simon betrays me, I will be ready.  ’ Peter assured.  He owed Simon much, but the truth was that he barely knew him.  He knew that Simon was a wealthy old man who loved extreme sports and picking up strays.  Simon Fairchild’s morals and interests would always be a mystery to Peter. Although he did suppose that the old man would most certainly defend his own interests before anything else. For that reason, Peter  would never blindly trust him.

But it was an unpleasant topic of conversation, and unpleasant thoughts compared to what Elias inspired in him with just the feeling of his hand on his skin. A hand that slowly came down to rest on Peter's chest as Elias leaned in to kiss him. It did help with the bitterness of Peter's thoughts. ‘Did I make you upset?’ Elias asked. Peter shook his head. Elias chuckled. ‘You are upset, though. I feel responsible for it. I want to make it up to you.’ Peter swallowed heavily at the suggestion in his tone. He knew what that meant. And he yearned for it. 

‘How about this- I let you do what you want with me. Tie me up, hurt me, degrade me- Anything you want . ’ Peter visibly tensed up, for a wholly other reason now. His face was burning hot- he knew he was blushing. He said nothing. Elias tilted his head, feigning innocence, like he had just been talking about dinner. ‘Are you embarrassed, Peter? Don't be. You know  _ I _ don't judge.’

‘I know.’ Peter answered,  taking a deep, shaky breath.  The thoughts that crossed his mind at that moment were beyond wicked.  He only felt more  embarrassed  as he lingered on them.  Elias chuckled. He  leaned in as if to kiss Peter again,  pulled at his lower lip with his teeth,  then released it, moving away from Peter's eager  mouth. ‘ Your face is even more flushed now. I think I know why.’ 

Elias placed one of his  hands on Peter's neck as he pushed him down gently onto his back, climbing on top of him and ever slowly tightening his grip around Peter's throat. Peter's heart raced in his chest- It felt like it was going to explode. It slowly became more difficult for him to swallow, and each intake of breath becoming more painful, more desperate. Peter closed his eyes, making a noise that he wished had been one of anguish. His own hand reached for Elias', but it wasn't to try and free himself from that tightening grip. He squeezed Elias' hand firmly over his own throat. It wasn't enough. Elias released his grip, and Peter gasped for air as soon as he was released. He coughed, and gathered his senses. When he looked up at Elias,  breathing hard and flushed, He saw Elias grinning down at him. ‘You want  _ me _ to do what I want, don't you, Peter?’

Peter nodded once. He couldn't make a sound. It took all he had to not look away. It was a difficult thing to admit to himself. But he had already, in a way. It came as very little surprise indeed; when he thought about how he so eagerly knelt before Elias and let him fuck his throat raw. How he loved feeling Elias's come inside his mouth and on his face; the result of Peter's worship and of Elias' pleasure. That's all Peter wanted, really. To please him. To serve him in all the ways he could. The rest didn't matter. If he choked, if he bled or if he came out of it bruised- It would all be worth it so long as Elias was satisfied with him. 

Elias reached for Peter's neck again. That time he squeezed harder,  his grip firm on Peter's throat. And he leaned in to whisper in his ear.  ‘ Be careful what you wish for.’

Elias squeezed even harder- Peter felt light-headed; his vision turned black for a second before air finally came back into him, Elias easing his grip just enough to maintain him conscious. ‘Are you scared, Peter?’ Elias asked, his bright green eyes alight with pure delight as he bared his fangs in a grin. Peter shook his head. ‘No.’ His voice was hoarse from having the air choked out of him, and it was all he could manage to say. He wasn't scared of giving up his body to the hands of his god. He had done it before, and he had loved it. He would love it no matter what, because he loved  _ him _ . 

_ ‘Good.’ _

Peter woke up late the next morning. He got out of bed, and realised just how sore his whole body was. He was spent- Not tired, just spent. His mind was in a strange sort of haze, and it was only when he saw his reflection in the mirror that he snapped out of it. His neck was badly bruised, and when he brought his fingers up to it, he noticed red marks around his wrists. He grimaced. He would have to conceal those carefully. The last thing he needed was questions on them. He doubted people would come to the right conclusion, but the ones they could come to were just as unpleasant and likely to grow out of control.

For all the inconvenience they represented in the following days- Those marks filled Peter with an indescribable feeling. Whenever he saw himself in the mirror, he remembered that night. The pleasure and the pain passing coursing through him as Elias used his body; as Peter let himself be stripped of all control in  a passionate act of worship and love. 

It had been so freeing, to give himself whole, body and soul, to the one he loved; to his god. When Peter saw those marks, he remembered all those feelings, and the warmth returned with them, burning, consuming him with desire. He was aware of the risk of being seen, the darkening marks on his pale skin did stand out if he wasn’t careful. And he was  _ anxious _ about it. The sort of anxiety that was as much fear as it was excitement. 

And in that sea of emotions and feelings- Peter felt no shame. What use would it be, anyway, when he had already gone so far down that path? It would be needless torture. Peter had already given enough of  _ that _ . He wanted no more shame, no more pain. Just blissful worship in Elias’ arms. Once upon a time, he had taken his vows as a catholic priest, devoting his soul and body to God. At the time he had felt no shame, nor relief or love. He had felt nothing. Giving himself to Elias had felt good. It had felt  _ right _ . 

Peter tried to think about that. These days it had been difficult to not have his thoughts straying towards his past whenever he saw Simon during mass. Sometimes; he came to greet him after them. Or he dropped by at random times of the day. Once he even brought  _ lunch _ . Like the good old days, he said. Simon kept him company, disturbed his solitude and his peace with conflicted  thoughts and memories and fears. 

And Peter enjoyed it. He enjoyed the company, he enjoyed the food Simon brought him, and he enjoyed remembering that he was  _ human _ . For all his ramblings, and his eccentricity, his small talk about the weather or about the landscape- Peter found himself enjoying the presence of another human being. It was nothing like being with Elias, nowhere as completely fulfilling, nowhere as good. But that was exactly why he liked it. The fire that burnt inside of Peter when he was around Elias sometimes felt like it burnt too bright, and its flames consumed everything that made Peter himself. He lost the ability to think clearly, lost the concept of time or his grasp on reality, even. And he loved it- He did, didn’t he? It felt good to abandon yourself to the inferno of desire and love. But when he talked with Simon, and the flames diminished, he found himself wondering how much he had lost of himself. Of the person he had  been when he first met Simon. 

That stirred something within him. A new fear, that made him wonder if by  abandoning himself to the fire of Elias’ love, he wouldn’t end up irremediably burnt.

Of course, Elias calmed his doubts. Sweet words and caresses, rougher ones too, they all made him forget about his worries. It was better that way, blissful ignorance.

But Simon kept coming back. And thus, there was no lasting peace. Doubt festered and grew as Peter desperately tried to make it disappear. He started to resent him for it. For a few days, Peter tried to act like he wasn’t angry.  But he inevitably snapped. 

They were having lunch, in a local restaurant. Simon was ranting about his trip to America, back in the day. ‘They have a grand vision of things, Americans.’ He had said. ‘Everything there is huge. I would move there, if the food wasn’t so bad. Maybe you should go too. It would do you some good to live this place. Everything is just so small and narrow. It’s suffocating.’ There was no rational explanation for the anger Peter felt at that moment. He dropped his fork. ‘Is that why you’re here? You want me to leave? To resign?’

Simon raised an eyebrow, mouth hanging open, stopped mid bite during his meal. The content of his fork fell back onto the plate, and he sighed, putting down his fork calmly. The restaurant was quite busy at that time of the day, and music played in the background, almost drowned out by the surrounding chatter and clinking of tableware all around the room. Simon remained awfully calm as he used a napkin to wipe the corner of his mouth. Peter watched, seething inside, about to run out of patience and just leave. What was he trying to do? Was his goal to irritate him? To make him realise that he was in fact, just as messed up as the rumours said? Peter didn’t know- but whatever it was, it was to be working just fine. ‘I was simply suggesting a holiday abroad, why take it so seriously? Everyone needs a vacation from time to time. I sure do!’ 

Peter glared at him. ‘This isn’t about holidays, Simon. I’m asking you what you’re doing here. It’s been weeks.’ Simon let out a long sigh. Clearly, he didn’t want to be having that conversation. A shame, but Peter wasn’t backing down. ‘I’m keeping an eye on you, Peter, that’s all.’

‘I’m fine. I’m not a child. I don’t need you watching over me.’ 

‘Then maybe I should just go-’ Simon moved to get up. He had barely grabbed his cane that Peter slammed his fist on the table. ‘Sit down. We’re not done.’ That attracted a few worried looks from the nearby tables. Simon smiled at the worried onlookers, and that seemed to placate them. ‘That’s exactly the sort of behaviour that tells me you’re not fine, Peter.’ He poured some water in their glasses, and invited Peter to drink. Peter refused, so he sipped on his water alone before continuing. ‘The things I’ve heard and seen worry me, Peter. It’s not just the aggressivity, or the problem of faith alone.’ Peter had no idea what he was talking about. Outside of that, he had heard no one complain. ‘What do you mean?’ 

‘You really don’t realise, then. Did you know that you’ve been seen several times sleepwalking outside of your home? Barefoot on the street, talking to yourself? That spooked quite a few people.’

Peter froze. Anger was washed away and replaced with cold dread. It was the first time he heard about that. He hadn’t noticed. Was that why he couldn’t remember going to bed or falling asleep? Why sometimes he couldn’t tell when he was thinking and dreaming? ‘I-I had no idea.’ Simon smiled sympathetically. ‘Your doctor has also remarked that you lose track of time a lot-’ Peter scoffed at that. ‘It happens.’ Simon sighed. ‘Yes, it does. Not to the point where you spend at least two extra hours at church every day after closing time. Should I also mention how you miraculously cured your alcoholism? The self-inflicted wounds on your hands and chest?’

The words cut like a knife. Peter didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t move. He had no idea- ‘How do you-’ Simon sighed again. ‘How do I know? I have eyes and ears. I talked to people. They see more than you give them credit for.’ Peter stared at his plate, head low. He felt exposed. How long until Simon knew about everything else? ‘If you want to know why I’m here, Peter- The truth is that there have been enough concerns expressed about you that the Church is investigating. I’m not your official judge, Peter, but I wanted to see how things were for myself. I don't know what’s going on, but I hope you will tell me, eventually. In the meantime, I’ll just continue to be a pain in your arse, just like the good old days.’ 

Simon resumed eating without further ceremony. Peter felt dizzy. He stood up and excused himself to the bathroom. 

Peter took a deep breath. Alone in the quiet, badly lit, dirty bathroom of the restaurant, he realised just how overwhelming all that chatter and activity had been. How exposed he had felt. Now he understood better. All those eyes constantly on him. Even if he ignored them, if he didn’t look at them, they were still watching. And they knew more than Peter had believed. He wasn’t angry at Simon anymore. Now he was angry at everyone else. All these people watching, meddling, gossiping and plotting. Was it so hard to just leave him alone? 

Peter was staring at his reflection in the mirror. He barely recognized himself these days. He had gotten paler somehow, thinner too. His hair had gone entirely white over the past months. He wondered why it took him so long to notice. And he looked so very tired, even as he didn’t feel like it. Like he was burning through his energy without noticing how fast it was running out. He closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them again, familiar green eyes had appeared next to his reflection in the mirror. Elias placed his hand one Peter’s back, a comforting gesture, that almost made him forget about everything. Almost. ‘It seems that Fairchild is unto you.’

‘Not just him.’ Peter sighed. ‘I’ll probably be losing my job soon.’ Peter laughed at that. He didn't care the least bit about losing his job. He hated it. He hated the people involved in it. He hated the Church and its meddling. He was so  _ angry. _ ‘Probably. But that’s the least of our problems.’ Elias said. Peter turned to look at him. Not his reflection. The real Elias, the one that he could touch and feel. And he did touch him. His warm skin felt reassuring under Peter’s cold palm. Elias chuckled, endeared by the unexpected gesture of affection. ‘The Church will be investigating. And they will be investigating potential possession.’ Peter froze. Possession. ‘You’re not-’ Elias grinned. ‘Possessing you? No, or we wouldn’t be doing the things we do, my dearest Peter. I’m very much real. As real as I can be in this world. But if they do find me in that form- Well, let’s say I would rather it doesn’t happen. I have to leave before it gets- messy.’

‘Leave? Now?’ Peter’s hand dropped at his sides. Elias simply stared at him and sighed before taking  Peter’s hand in his. ‘Only for a time. I’ll be back soon enough. You can wait for me, can’t you, Peter?’

It hurt. Of course, it did. Peter squeezed Elias’ hand. He didn't want to be alone again. Not now, not with everything that was going on. He needed to be guided, to be reassured, to be told what he was meant to do in the middle of it all. But he nodded. And he let go of Elias’ hand. There wasn’t much else to do. Elias wasn’t his to keep- But he was Elias’, body and soul. And for that reason, he would wait until it was safe for him to return. What other choice did he have? Elias smiled, he lifted Peter’s chin, as if to take a better look at his pain. ‘Don't make this face. You're going to make me feel bad.’ Peter did his best to recompose himself. It was nothing. Peter wasn’t going to lose him. He would be back. Elias let go of his chin. ‘That’s better. Do try not to forget about me, Peter. Because I won’t be forgetting about you.’ Peter shook his head. As if he could forget. ‘Elias-’ ‘Yes, my dearest?’ 

the pet name made Peter shiver. He got on his knees before Elias, and he waited, staring up at him. Elias grinned, all too pleased. ‘Here? And they say romance is dead.’ he chuckled, but didn’t move. ‘Please, Elias.’ Elias put his hand on Peter’s head, passing it through his messy hair, gently at first, then he tugged hard. Peter gasped, then moaned as Elias started to pet his head again. ‘Please what? I could do so many things right now.’ Elias mused. ‘I want to take my communion a last time, before you go.’ Peter said, swallowing back his embarrassment. ‘I wonder, is that something you can do outside of a holy place?’ Elias smirked. It was cruel, the way he teased. But that only made Peter want it more. He wanted to please him before he left. So that he would remember what it felt like as long as possible. 

‘You’re my holy place.’ Peter said. It sounded perhaps... cheesier than he had meant to. He didn’t care. Elias passed his fingers over Peter’s lips, chuckling as Peter eagerly parted his lips to let them slide into his mouth, rubbing against his tongue. Peter started sucking on them and licking them hungrily. When Elias was satisfied, he removed his fingers from Peter’s mouth, and Peter looked up at him expectantly, lips wet and saliva dripping on his chin. ‘Such a nice mouth, you have. And it says such pretty things.’ Elias smiled fondly. ‘But I want to hear the very dirty ones. Now tell me again: What do you want, Peter?’ 

Peter swallowed hard. He was blushing furiously, he could feel it, the warm rush of blood to his face, the thumping of his heart in his ears. He was desperate for it. ‘I want you to use my mouth until you come. I want to please you. Let me do that for you, Elias. Let me worship you now, before you go.’ Elias smiled, licking his lips. ‘Very well, dearest. You asked so nicely- I would hate to leave you unsatisfied.’ He reached for his belt, unfastening it. ‘I’ll try to be quick, who knows when someone might come banging on the door.’ 

Peter barely had time to remember where he was before his mouth was too full to change his mind. Not that he would have changed it, anyway. It was too late for that the moment he got on his knees. He would need to come up with an excuse for Simon later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you did enjoy that. (insert the eye emoji)  
> If you are upset about Simon Fairchild's role in this, what can I say?  
> I need characters, I need names. And Simon Fairchild is my fav rich grandpa.  
> If you are upset about Peter being a sub.... i don't know what to say. It was to be expected.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, warning- That chapter's pretty dark. And dark as in, depressing.  
> TW: Violence, depression, drug addiction( mentionned, refered)

Peter had forgotten what it felt like to be alone. Not lonely- The loneliness had never left him, really. But alone. Without Elias around, without his presence and his voice and his touch, Peter was now left alone with his thoughts. It was odd, to tell himself that it had once been just like that. Peter and his thoughts, alone in the world, with alcohol as his only distraction. What did he use to do back then, when he wasn’t busy with his church duties? He couldn’t remember doing anything. Perhaps that had been the reason- or the consequence- of his unhappiness back then. 

Recently, his life had been all about Elias. He spent his day waiting for him to appear out of nowhere, waiting to bask in his light and warmth, waiting to be touched and to forget about everything else. Without him, there was nothing to wait for. At least, he didn’t feel empty, or cold; like he once had. He was full of that strange, inappropriate satisfaction, that endlessly burning love- But it had nowhere to go now. It was trapped inside. And Peter didn’t have the key to let it out. During the day, he was simply angry. Angry at all these people he saw every day for meddling, for watching, for gossiping- For existing. They were the reason Elias had had to go- And Peter resented them for it. That anger kept him awake, but it was a bitter, frustrating feeling, to have to pretend he was fine all day until he got home. And once he was home, and the anger had settled, Peter sat alone in his cold, empty flat, kept warm by the burning within him, with the thoughts and memories and dreams it brought to his mind as his only company. All of them were of Elias.

Peter was jolted awake by a shrill, unpleasant sound. He realised it was his phone, buzzing and ringing far too loud for his taste. When he grabbed it, the vibrations felt like needles in his hands, and he hurried to pick up, to make it stop. He didn’t even look at who was calling, but he recognised the voice on the other end of the line immediately. It’s not like it could have been anyone else. 

‘I hope I’m not waking you up?’ Simon sounded too cheerful for a Monday morning. Peter grunted an unconvincing ‘no’ in response. Simon probably didn’t care much for the answer anyway. ‘Good! It seems like you’re not going to work today, so I thought we could do something fun instead. The weather is just too nice to stay inside.’

Peter swore under his breath when he realised just how late it was. He had no recollection of even going to bed, even less of being so tired he had to sleep that long. Maybe he had been sleepwalking again. He didn’t have time to decline Simon’s invitation though, as he told him to meet him in an hour at a local café. Then he hung up. Peter sighed. It was indeed quite late. Too late to do anything productive. He might just as well go along with Simon’s idea. Not like he had anything better to do. Not anymore. 

Peter met Simon at the café, and then he told Peter to get in his car. He refused to answer when Peter asked where they were going. ‘It’s a surprise’ He said. Peter was surprised that the old man could still drive. And that he still drove so recklessly. Whenever they were on an empty countryside road, he would speed up far too much to Peter’s taste, and take turns that had Peter holding unto his seat for dear life. Simon talked all the while, about how he missed older cars- as if the one they were in wasn’t positively ancient- ‘It was just more fun.’ He said. ‘Maybe I’m just old and nostalgic of the time before seatbelts.’ He grinned mischievously as he said that, knowing very well how that sounded to someone sitting in his car with him behind the wheel. After that car ride, Peter wondered how the old man had even managed to live that long.

After about an hour on desolate roads, Simon finally parked his car at a seemingly random spot in the middle of the road, right next to a forest. He got out wordlessly, and Peter did the same. It was much colder outside in the shade of the large trees. They loomed on each side of the road, impossibly tall, dense foliage rustling in the wind. It was so loud, the whole forest was moving with the wind in unison, singing along with the birds. Simon lead them to a small, hidden path leading through the forest, and if Peter wondered how safe that was, he figured that it would be pointless to stop there after he had followed Simon all the way here. So he went along, and they walked in silence. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’ Simon’s voice interrupted Peter in his thoughts. He had been thinking about how that surrounding peace felt so fragile- Each of their step disturbed it. ‘I thought you could use a break from your daily life. You’ve been stressed these days. Nothing like losing yourself in the vastness of nature to relax.’ 

It was nice, in a way. Peter tried to focus on that. He did. But his thoughts wandered away. He thought about Elias, wondered if he could see that, if he watched from the dark or if he had truly gone. ‘I used to hunt here when I was younger.’ Simon said, sighing. ‘I disliked the hunting, but I always found the forest to be so fascinating. When you’re surrounded by it, it seems endless. I got lost far too often, as you may have guessed.’ he chuckled fondly at the memory. It was odd to imagine a much younger Simon getting lost far too often. To busy exploring recklessly to pay any mind to the consequences. But it wasn’t surprising. ‘I hope we won’t get lost.’ Peter said. ‘Of course not, we’ll simply follow that path. I fear I’m too old to go on these kinds of adventures.’ That was clearly a disappointment for him. Not for Peter, though. He had never quite had it in him to go on adventures. He preferred to follow familiar, safe paths over making new ones. 

‘You should really consider taking a break from time to time. Go see places you want to see, do things you want to do.’ Simon said at some point. They had been walking for a few minutes now. The fresh air was clearing Peter’s mind a bit, and the new sights definitely felt refreshing. But he couldn’t fully enjoy it. There was something in him that found it all too cold, too dark with the sunlight barely making its way under green canopy of the forest, too noisy even without a single human made sound around. It irked him. He wanted to be somewhere else. Something was missing here, something to calm that itch he felt constantly, an outlet for that fire in him. ‘I’m fine.’ Was what he answered to Simon. And truly he was fine; his thoughts weren’t dark, they were pleasant, he hadn’t had a nightmare in months, and alcohol didn’t trouble his mind anymore. ‘Even if you are, sometimes taking a break feels good. Come on now, what would you like to do? I don’t mind paying for it. Maybe I could take you to the United States! You would hate it.’ Simon laughed. Peter grimaced at the thought. Travelling had never appealed to him. Too many people involved. ‘I don’t want to do anything. I’m fine with the way things are.’ Simon hummed thoughtfully. ‘Well then, I’ll just decide for you until you have a better idea. I wouldn’t want you to be bored.’

‘You don’t have to, Simon.’ Peter said. Keeping an eye on him was something, but he didn’t have to get involved. ‘I’m an old man with too much money, Peter. I have nothing better to do than be the bane of your existence.’ He winked and nudged Peter’s side with his elbow, trying to get a reaction. Peter forced a smile. He didn't know if that was a good thing.

And Simon did keep his word. Over the following weeks, he invited Peter to a number of outings, mostly locally, as Peter still insisted on working. It was nice. It was something to look forward to. And it eased the itch a bit, gave Peter some sense of purpose to his daily life. It still burnt when he was alone at night, but it made his days more bearable. A nice break from the fake smiles he gave to all these people he had come to despise. He hid it so well. Too well, maybe. But it got harder each day. 

It didn’t help that Peter didn’t sleep as well as he used to. He was restless most of the time, couldn’t fall asleep until he suddenly woke up in the morning, drenched in sweat from his dreams and disorientated. It made him irritable, to wake up feeling lost, and knowing why he felt that way. 

It was a day like the others. Peter didn’t expect anything special to happen, outside of Simon dropping by. Which he did. He came to mass, sat at the front and spoke briefly with an old couple next to him before Peter started his sermon. Ignoring the noises they all made while Peter spoke was harder than it used to be. Sniffles, coughs, murmurs- Peter heard it all. And he wished they would just stop. But he kept going, kept speaking about Jesus and forgiveness and love, all the nonsense they had come to hear, until it was finally over. He sighed as soon as it was over, no one paid I much mind. They all started to leave, some of them came to greet him, to take the host. To make donations. The usual. A woman, and her husband, came up to him. The usual. They spoke of their children. Peter pretended to smile, to take interest in their daughter’s upcoming wedding. 

‘You don’t look too well these days, father. Do you get enough sleep?’ That woman asked. Peter felt something in him threatening to break. So he gave a curt nod ‘I’m fine.’ But of course, she wasn’t satisfied with that. ‘You should be careful not to push yourself too hard. If you have trouble sleeping, my sister used to drink-’ These people and their prying, their unprompted advice. They were never satisfied until they had dug their filthy hands deeps inside of your guts, and found their whatever answer they wanted to see. No words would satisfy them. They had to tear you open and see for themselves. And then they would act offended of what they see, and share it with their neighbours. ‘So unseemly’ They would say. As if they weren’t the one who had looked for it in the first place. 

‘I don’t remember asking you for your  _ expert _ opinion on my alleged insomnia.’ Peter said through gritted teeth. The woman gasped in shock. Her husband stepped forward, clearly displeased. ‘There’s no need to be rude, father. She was trying to be helpful.’ the woman nodded. “You don’t look well, so we’re naturally concerned. We only want to help.’ Peter scoffed at that. Concerned. Of course, they were. ‘Maybe you should try to mind your own business.’ he told them. Their initial shock quickly turned into anger. ‘What the bloody hell is wrong with you?’ The man shouted. Heads turned. Simon quickly excused himself from his conversation and started to walk over. ‘Now, now, there’s no need for shouting-’ He said, trying to calm down the man. Peter stared at them. He was angry. So angry. Why didn’t they understand that he didn’t want their pity, their worry, their help _. _ They ruined everything. They had always had. Even when Peter was younger, people had always been  hinderances . Always making everything about  _ them _ , trying to force him to talk with  _ them _ , to be like  _ them _ , for him to think about  _ their _ feelings. But he said nothing. He never did. That would be unprofessional, wouldn’t it? And he had always hated confrontation.

The man and woman exchanged a few outraged words with Simon, who barely managed to calm them down with reminders that they were in a church, and that God wouldn’t look kindly on them assaulting a priest in his house. He said that last part as a joke, though the look on his face made it obvious that he was concerned that might actually happen. The couple left. And so did everyone else, after they had satisfied their voyeuristic curiosity by staring and asking the couple what had transpired. Peter wanted to tell them all to go to hell. The irony of that expression didn’t escape his notice. 

‘You need time off. Before  this ends with a murder.’ Simon said. Peter couldn’t deny it. Not after that scene. Time off wasn’t what he needed though. But perhaps laying low would help shrug off unwanted attention. Perhaps then, he would come back. He nodded, and Simon sighed. He patted his back. ‘Try to not pick any more fights, yes? I can’t take punches as I once did.’ He chuckled. But he looked worried. Peter apologised. 

They didn’t speak of it again.

Simon was quick to call and pull a few strings to get a replacement. He didn’t mention the fight, or the lack of sleep, or anything else. He said Peter had come down with something. That was it. Maybe his lie wouldn’t last long. But Peter was grateful for it. 

Taking a break from his priest duties did prove helpful in some way. Peter didn’t need to give himself headaches trying to find the topic of his next sermon. He didn’t need to stand in front of all these people and tell them things he thought of as lies. He felt less anger too, he felt safer, away from the attention of all these prying eyes. Though when he went out in public alone or with Simon- He did feel the weight of them all. Eyes watching and judging, the whispers and the looks of pity. He couldn’t even feel Elias’ eyes on him to compensate. All he had were memories. And he revisited them whenever he wasn’t with Simon. The line between sleep and the waking world became thinner then. He spent most of his time absorbed in his own head, focusing on that comforting, familiar warmth inside of him. It wasn’t the same, of course. But when he touched himself, thinking about Elias’ hands, of how it felt to be inside him, to be touched by him, body and soul- He could almost feel his presence, the breathing against his ear. He could almost hear the sound of his voice; of all the things he whispered- the praises and dirty talk. He wasn’t here. None of it was real. But his love was. And that, Peter felt. And it was as real as anything else he felt. It was his escape, his safe place. 

Peter’s outings with Simon were helpful in passing time. That was why, even when Simon suggested the worst possible outing, Peter always found himself going anyway. That night, it was a football night. Simon had invited Peter to the local pub, for a drink- No alcohol, of course- And to watch the game. Peter had no interest in football. And from Simon’s commentaries on the games, Simon had no interest in it either. He found it merely entertaining to cheer with the people assembled there. Peter merely observed with disinterest, snacking on peanuts and any other food Simon ordered for them. The old man sure seemed to be having fun, and so did everyone else. Though he saw a few people frowning in the corner, and rolling their eyes whenever the crowd in the pub erupted in cheers. It was too hot inside, too cramped, too loud. With all the good will in the world, Peter excused himself during half-time, and headed back home. He felt a nasty headache coming.

The fresh night air was very welcome. It was somewhat chilly, but Peter didn’t feel the need to close his coat. It was quiet outside, save for the occasional muffled, cheer coming from one of the houses he passed by on his way home. Sometimes when he glanced at the light coming from their windows, he saw a TV screen displaying the football game, and families gathered around it. He didn’t understand why they all did that. What pride they took in watching other people play football through TV screens. Why they needed to belong to one team or another. He had never tried to, either.

Peter hadn’t walked for five minutes that he heard loud voices coming from the corner of the street. He was soon faced with a group of four rather loud men, wearing scarves and shirts of their favourite teams. He tried to pay them no mind. He didn’t even look at their face. But he did recognise the voice that called his name as he passed them by. He stopped, slowly turned around, and found himself facing the group- And Dave Harrington, very much drunk, all of them. Peter heard it in their slur, and the clumsy movements of their limbs. He was familiar with it. ‘Father Lukas, out so late. I wasn’t expecting to find  _ you _ out on game night. You watch the game?’ Peter couldn’t figure out what he wanted. After getting punched in the face a while ago, he had honestly no interest in speaking with Dave. And he couldn’t imagine why he would want to interact with him in any way. Still, the man was drunk, and he knew better than to anger a drunk man and his... pack. ‘I watched some of it.’ Peter said. Dave laughed. ‘Oh, you really did! Now I’m surprised. I thought you were out doing drugs or something.’ He grinned. And so did the others. Peter did his best to look unaffected. He knew very well about the rumours. And he figured that Dave Harrington would have played no small part in helping them spread about town.

Peter pretended to look at his watch. ‘Not on Saturdays. If you’ll excuse me, I would like to go home. Good night, Mr. Harrington.’ Peter turned around, but he felt someone grab his arm and yank him back around. He glared at Dave. ‘I’m not done. You know, I don’t think you listened to me last time.’ Dave said. One of his mate tried to tell him to calm down, but he sneered at him. ‘Chill mate, we’re just having a chat. I'm not going to hit a fucking priest without a good reason.’ Then he returned his attention to Peter, though his friends didn’t seem very comfortable with the whole thing. ‘I was saying- Ah yeah, you didn’t listen. I wanted you to talk to Stevie again. Take back whatever the fuck you said to him. You didn’t answer though. Just stared at me blankly. Like you’re doing now.’ He snapped his fingers in front of Peter’s face. Peter winced at the sharp sound. He felt his blood boil. But still, he said nothing. He stood still, keeping his balled fists at this sides, and clenching his teeth to not curse him. ‘Stop that.’ Peter said. That apparently made Dave laugh. ‘Oh so you do react. I figured you had no backbone.’ 

‘C’mon Dave, that’s enough.’ One of the guys grabbed his shoulder, and was promptly shoved away. ‘Fuck off back home if you don’t like it. I’ve got scores to settle. Things to  _ say _ .’

‘Fuck you Dave. I’m not bullying a bloody priest.’ and on that, the man left. Peter looked at the other. They seemed to have no qualms with whatever was going on, they just stared with eyes devoid of all intelligence. Peter wasn’t afraid. He should have been. Sure, he was bigger than any of them. But they were three, and he was alone. And they were in a dark street, in the middle of the night. No one would be coming to check if there was a fight outside. They were all too busy with their televisions. But all he felt was anger. Anger at being provoked, anger at having to stay calm because he was meant to 'turn the other cheek’. And Anger because people like him were everything that he hated about humanity. A waste of breath and space. ‘You should listen to him.’ Peter said, as evenly as he could manage. Though his voice did tremble with anger a bit. Dave burst out laughing. 

‘Or what? God won’t be happy with me?’ He scoffed. Then he smirked. ‘Oh! Or was that a personal threat? First drinking, drugs and now fighting? What’s next, fucking? Are you even a priest anymore? You can’t do anything,  _ Father Lukas _ . So you’re going to listen-’

Had Elias been there, perhaps he would have been able to reason Peter. His presence calmed him; it was a haven of peace and calm and of love _.  _ Perhaps then , it made sense that His absence stirred within Peter’s soul a strong, burning fire of  _ hatred _ . 

Peter punched Dave in the stomach. Hard enough that the man ended up backing away, folded in two and groaning. The two other men stared, eyes wide and mouth hanging in shock. They didn't do anything. Dave staggered back upright, wheezing. ‘You-’ Peter didn’t hear the insult. He did feel the punch though. He saw the floor catching up to him as he was thrown on the ground. He Heard the sound of bones cracking as he was kicked in the chest, as a foot came down hard on his hand when he tried to get back up. He closed his eyes then. They didn’t spare his head. After a while he couldn’t tell where he was being kicked and punched because it all hurt too much. His head was throbbing and the hits kept on coming and coming. He did try to get away, or fight back. He was still so angry, now at himself, for having put himself in that situation again. For being powerless. But after a few moments, even fighting back felt pointless. If he was going to die, then so be it. Fighting it wouldn’t help. At that moment, it wasn’t for God’s help that he prayed. But for Elias’. He wanted him at his side, he wanted him to ease the pain. But there was no answer. Then Peter was alone. He felt blood on his face, in his mouth and nose. Breathing hurt, he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He could barely open his eyes. And he saw something there then, across the street, lurking in the shadows. Green eyes, and a smile. He tried to call for him, but he vanished. Then everything else did, too.

The first thing Peter was conscious of was the warmth. It felt comforting, to wake up to that feeling. Then he opened his eyes. He was in a brightly lit room. His mouth was dry, he realised. He was parched. He looked around. And he heard the beeps and hisses of machines around. It dawned on him where he was. 

That was an hospital bed. He looked at his hands, they were too heavy to move, and they hurt. One of the them was in a cast, it was his right hand. Good. He was left-handed. His left hand had a needle stuck in it. The needle was linked to a tube. Made sense. He looked to the side and saw the bags of liquid hanging above. Then he looked back at the ceiling. Wondering if he should fall back asleep. If he should try to move. 

Peter knew why he was here of course; it was hard to forget. He was surprised that he wasn’t in more pain, honestly. But there was time for that yet. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to it. A nurse finally stepped in the room. ‘Oh good, you’re awake.’ He said. ‘You were taken to the hospital.’ Peter tried to say something. But he couldn’t. He was so thirsty, his mouth was dry, and his throat hurt. He tried to move then, do something. But the pain quickly told him that it wasn’t a good idea. ‘You shouldn’t try to move. The doctor will be here soon, alright?’ Peter groaned in frustration. It was all he could manage. 

The doctor did come by eventually. It felt like an eternity. Peter barely understood what he was told. The list of his injuries was a long one. Broken ribs, arm. A Shattered hand, a concussion, and many bruises. As well as some internal injuries, which he was assured were under control after the surgery. The doctor did make a joke about it being a miracle that his face and organs hadn’t suffered more from the beating. ‘God does protect his own, it seems. I’m an atheist myself. Maybe I should reconsider.’. Peter didn’t say anything. He couldn’t and didn’t want to anyway. There were more details on the hospital fees and how long he would be staying- Simon's name was mentioned too, for some reason. At that point Peter was dozing off again, so the doctor left.

Then it was the police’s turn to visit him. He was more focused then. They asked him to tell his own version of the story. And he lied. He said he had no clue who it was who assaulted him. Then he said he didn’t want to press charges anyway. They insisted. ‘We just can’t let that slide.’ They said. ‘Someone else might be hurt.’ But they had to leave, in the end. Since Peter couldn’t give them any more information on the culprits. ‘A senseless attack’ they had called it. ‘They were drunk’ that was enough of a justification for attacking a priest, or anyone, so viciously. ‘Alcohol messes with you, doesn’t it?’ Peter had nodded. ‘It does.’ After that, he did get some rest. He slept most of the day, and then the night. He was woken up in the middle of the night for blood tests, or just to check on him. 

The next morning, Peter felt better. He woke up and was forced to eat breakfast by a young nurse. He didn’t feel like eating. Now he was in pain, and his stomach was trying to kill him. But he did eat a bit anyway, to get the man off his back. Then he was alone. It was almost good when he had time by himself. He closed his eyes, tried to go to his happy place. But it was difficult to focus on it when pain shot through his body each time he breathed. He did wonder if that wasn’t a divine punishment. God’s way of telling him that his insult to his name had not gone unnoticed. Once upon a time, he would have been devastated by that idea, but not anymore. He found it ironic, how he had begged for a sign of His presence all his life, but he only manifested Himself to punish, to show his disapproval. That only comforted Peter in his hatred. Hatred for God, and for all of His blind followers. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t God. It was just him. And humanity’s stupidity at work. He had provoked that situation, and now he was paying the price. God had ignored him once again. The protection he had received- And he did believe that it was ‘a miracle’ as the doctor had put it- Wasn't from Him. He remembered the eyes, and the smile. And the warmth he had felt in his chest even in his agony. Elias. Watching over him. But the thought only brought tears to his eyes. Crying hurt, too.

He heard a knock on the door. He didn’t need to answer, he knew that whoever that was; they would be coming in anyway.

Simon walked in, along with a huge bouquet of very yellow flowers. There were many kinds of flowers in it. All of them yellow. It was... something. ‘Flower delivery. I hope you like yellow. It's such a cheery colour, I couldn't resist.’ Simon put down the flowers somewhere out of the way, and pulled up a chair to sit next to the bed, he looked around, hands on his cane, and frowned. ‘At least it's better here than in some of the other rooms. More colours.’ The room was painted in an ugly light blue, the kind that you would see in a child's room perhaps. Peter hadn't really noticed it before Simon pointed it out. He shrugged. Simon cleared his throat. ‘How are you feeling, then? Which level of bad are you at?’ 

The attempt at conversation was at least a nice change, so Peter indulged him. ‘I’m in pain. Breathing hurts. I can barely move without-’ He winced from the pain in his chest, and then he felt like coughing, but coughing was even worse. It was exhausting. ‘-Without feeling like I’m dying. I can barely sleep and when I do, people come in and do all these tests. I think I’m doing pretty  well, I could be dead.’ Simon sighed. A long, tired sigh. He was obviously worried. Peter couldn’t figure out why he insisted on staying. They weren’t related by blood, and Peter was hardly the kind of man you would want as a friend. But he didn’t ask. He was... Glad,  that he wasn’t alone. 

‘I don’t suppose you want to talk about what happened?’ That wasn’t even really a question. Simon knew the answer. ‘I was attacked by a bunch of drunk, football supporters. There isn’t much more to say about that.’ Peter said. IT hurt to speak. It hurt to do just about anything, in his state. Simon hummed. ‘I’m sure someone else would have a clever answer to that. I should have thought about preparing my speech before coming here.’ An attempt at a joke, but neither of them was really in a laughing mood. ‘Lord, who beats up a priest? Or anyone unprovoked, for that matter.’ Simon passed a hand over his tired face, muttering something unintelligible. Unprovoked. Peter didn’t correct him, just like he didn’t correct the police when they had blamed it all on alcohol and football hooligans. ‘Have you spoken to the police?’ Simon asked. Peter nodded. ‘I told them the same thing as I just told you. I also told them I wouldn’t press charges.’

Simon’s eyes went wide. He started laughing incredulously. ‘You told them  _ what _ ? Boy, even Jesus himself would have pressed charges for such a crime- It's one thing to turn the other cheek-’ Peter interrupted him before he could finish. ‘It’s nothing of the sort.’ That didn’t clear Simon’s confusion, not that it had been the purpose. ‘The why- Excuse my language- The hell would you refuse to press charges against whoever did  _ this _ to you? They almost killed  you, Peter. That’s-’

‘I just want to be left alone.’ Peter said. He closed his eyes, sighing and trying not to think about the pain. He just wanted to be left alone. He was tired of other people. The only one he wanted at his side wasn’t there, and there was nothing he wanted more than to be left in peace, forgotten, so that  _ he _ could come back. Elias. He would be able to make the pain disappear, if only they would just leave Peter  _ be.  _ Then it would all be better. Everything would be alright. He would once again only have to worry about love and he would be happy, at last.

Peter opened his eyes and realised that he was crying. The tears burnt his eyes, and he tried to fight against them, but in vain. He felt them roll down his face, and he reached to wipe them away from his face and his eyes, in a vain hope that Simon wouldn’t notice. He wished he had been alone. 

‘I- understand. Well, I don’t. But I get that you need time to- Process everything.’ Simon said. 

‘I’m- I’m fine.’ Peter said, sniffling. ‘It’s- Just the pain and everything.’ It wasn’t a lie. Pain and the lack of sleep didn’t help Peter’s emotional state. He couldn’t tell Simon more than that. 

Simon glanced at the IV, and at the buttons controlling the morphine dosage. ‘Should I increase the morphine? It’ll help with the pain.’ Peter hesitated. He wasn’t very keen on drugs. Last thing he needed was to develop a taste for morphine that he would be tempted to go back to once he was out of the hospital. But Peter was in too much pain. And that didn’t help matters either. He couldn’t even think anymore, couldn’t sleep for very long- He didn’t even find respite in his dreams. He sighed, and nodded. Simon pressed the button  _ twice _ . Peter didn’t even call him out on it. He thought he would need at least that much to get some rest without the leftover from the anaesthesia keeping him unconscious. ‘You know, I think I’m going to let you rest, and go buy some things to keep you busy until they let you go.’ Simon abruptly said. He got up and paused. ‘Do you need anything specific?’ Peter shook his head. IT wasn’t like he did anything specific either when he was out of the hospital. ‘Do you know when they’ll let me go home?’ he asked. ‘They’re keeping you a few days, until they’re sure you won’t die as soon as you leave the bed I suppose. The doctor did speak of running some more tests. But she appeared pretty optimistic! In fact, she said it was rather unsettling how good you were doing, all things considered.’ Simon scratched his chin, he seemed about as perplexed. ‘She told  _ you _ that?’ That was surprising, granted that Simon wasn’t family. Usually doctors didn’t disclose that kind of information to just about anyone. Simon chuckled. ‘Why wouldn’t they! I’m your beloved uncle. The only family you have left. Don’t be silly, Peter. Anyway, I’ll be back in the evening. Try to not run off while I’m gone.’ He winked. Peter snorted. ‘Sure, I’ll try.’ And with that, Simon was gone like the wind. 

And Peter was alone again. The good thing was, the morphine was starting to work, and the pain became much more bearable. Peter was completely out of it, though. He was able to focus on his thoughts more- Though they drifted from an idea to the other too much. He felt much better, at least as good as he could have felt in his state. He tried to focus on the future, of when the pain would be gone and Elias would be back. He was like his morphine, in a way. Keeping him happy, and hiding the pain. Hiding it. With warmth and love and pleasure. And it was nice, wasn’t it, to not think about the pain; or about the bad, bad things. To be euphoric and satisfied, kept in a blissful state of ignorance. It felt good. Peter didn’t want to let go of him. The morphine was nothing in comparison. He knew that if Elias had been there, then he would have walked out of the hospital in the next hour. Perhaps he would have never ended up there in the first place. No drug could calm Peter like  _ he _ did. And he wanted him back. He wanted him back so badly, it hurt. Why did he have to go? They could have left together. Peter would have followed. He would follow him anywhere. So why did he leave? Was it a test? Was  _ he _ testing him, like God tested his most faithful believers? Peter didn’t like that idea. Elias wouldn’t do that to him. Never. He wished he could sleep. But he was even more restless with the pain dulled; it only brought back the fire. He felt like he had to do something- But he couldn’t. Not with his wounded body, not while he was in an hospital bed. Sleep did eventually come, though, but he didn’t notice. 

When Simon came by again, he had brought a number of things. Snacks were among them, and books. He just placed them on the table next to the flowers, and started eating on the snacks after asking Peter if he wanted some. Peter wasn’t hungry at all. Peter wasn’t anything besides sweaty and dazed and occasionally in pain. ‘How are you feeling?’ Simon asked, siting cross legged on the chair next to the bed, eating cheese flavoured crisps. The smell wasn’t exactly pleasant, but Peter didn’t mention it. It wasn’t the most unpleasant thing he had to smell in an hospital. ‘Better. The pain is more manageable. Thank you.’ Simon smiled upon hearing that. ‘You do  _ sound _ better. So cheery.’ He chuckled. Peter realised that his voice had sounded lighter, warmer than usual. Simon continued. ‘I’ve spoken with the police. Well they came to get my account. You know how it is. I’m surprised it took them so long.’ 

‘What did you tell them?’ Peter tried to sit up straight in his bed, but he ended up regretting it. Morphine could only do so much. Simon grimaced. ‘I had nothing to tell them. You were at the pub with me. Then you got attacked by some hooligans, and someone came running to warn me you were hurt and an ambulance was on its way.’ Peter couldn’t help smiling at that. He was amused, and he couldn’t hide it. Hooligans. It made it sound like he had been attacked over some football disagreement. ‘Did I say something funny?’ Simon asked, eyebrow raised, and eyes narrowed. ‘Hooligans. It makes it sound like it was about football.’ Peter wasn’t sure why he suddenly found that so funny. But it was. He tried to regain his composure. He was pretty sure that it wasn’t supposed to be that funny. ‘What was it about?’ Simon asked. What was it about? Peter shrugged. ‘God? Dave being a bully?’ The name slipped from him too fast for Peter to realise. He muttered a curse under his breath and sighed. Simon wasn’t going to snitch on him. So far, he had only covered for him. And Peter felt the need to speak to someone. And it wouldn’t be a therapist. He had had enough of them. ‘Dave Harrington. And a few others. They’re the one who-’ Peter gestured vaguely to his own body with his only valid hand. ‘That.’

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled slowly. ‘So, to be clear- You lied to the police. Peter, whatever goes through that thick skull of yours, I will never understand.’ Peter averted his eyes. ‘They don’t have to know I lied.’ Simon was getting more exasperated by the minute. ‘I will certainly not be the one who tells them. I just don’t get why you lie. Are you protecting these people? Are they criminals? Are you involved in something criminal, because-’ Before Simon could go further in his theories, Peter  interrupted. ‘No, Nothing like that. He was just angry about what happened with his brother. I … Failed, to make him see the light of God, and that was enough to get me a punch to the face, a few months ago. I didn’t think he would still be bitter about it. I was wrong.’

Simon sighed in relief, shoulders sagging. It was certainly better than whatever criminal plot he had in mind. Though perhaps, the entire truth was just as disappointing. ‘So, he attacked you again then, that’s it?’ he asked. Peter groaned at that. He hated the mood he was in. He was sharing too much. But it was... A relief. Sharing his burden with someone felt liberating, especially now that he had no one else to help him carry it. Was it really what Elias had been doing though? It felt more like he helped Peter bury it deep enough that bringing it back up to the surface would be too painful, too difficult. With him gone, though, and with the morphine and pain and Simon’s attentive, kind ear- It was far too easy to let some of it surface and spill out. ‘I punched him.’ Peter said, blankly. ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘I punched him.’ Peter repeated. Then he clarified. ‘He was rambling. Insulting. I was angry.  So I punched him. I started it. They were three, I had no chance to come out of it unharmed, but I still punched him.’

Peter expected to read disappointment on Simon’s face. He expected to see pity too, perhaps. But Simon just looked straight at him, a stern  look on his face. ‘Are you trying to kill yourself, Peter? Is that what you’re doing?’ Peter chuckled. ‘No.’ ‘Then explain me what you’re trying to do. Because that’s- awfully like it was back then.’

‘I know. I remember.’ Though, Peter hadn’t realised the similarities. The isolation, the anger, the restlessness. Perhaps he hadn’t realised, because he felt so different. He felt warm, he felt right, he felt just. Like he had a purpose- And what a purpose it was. Fulfilment. Love.  _ Worship _ . For Elias. Just thinking about him, he felt the slightest bit calmer, more at ease. But then he realised that he wasn’t there, and it  _ hurt _ . He didn’t feel empty anymore. He couldn’t quite feel alone anymore. But it hurt. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch, like a fix he couldn’t get. 

He felt Simon’s hand coming to rest on his arm. But Peter couldn’t bring himself to look at him. He just stared down, and he tried to not speak. He tried to keep it together. He knew that it was the damned drugs and the pain making him feel like that. He wasn’t abandoned. The hurt would be gone soon. He would be getting what he longed for. The comfort and warmth, in the arms of another man, in Elias’ arms. But he was tired. Why did he have to wait, to suffer for it? 

‘What’s going on, Peter? Tell me.’ It sounded like an order. It had to be, because Peter wanted to answer. He couldn’t though- That would be too much, even for Simon. For anyone. What about it though? There was nothing much to lose. Either Elias was gone or he would be back- and that meant that it didn’t matter. Any of it, really. Simon wouldn’t speak of it to anyone. He would probably just leave. And that was fine, wasn’t it? Being alone. No one to disappoint, no one to lose. He heard Simon sigh, he patted his arm, short of being able to do anything more comforting. ‘If you don’t want to-’

‘It’s  _ him _ .’ Peter breathed, he closed his eyes, the tears stung. But it was nothing like the pain the sobs awoke in his chest. ‘I miss him. And it hurts and- I'm so-  _ angry _ .’ He heard  Simon shift in his seat. ‘Who, Peter?’ 

Peter laughed, a sad, broken laugh. How could he not know? He was the one Peter’s whole world revolved around. He was so beautiful, so perfect, so divine. 

‘ _ Elias. _ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked that one. Well "liked". Let me rephrase that.   
> I hope it wasn't badly written, and makes sense story-wise! :)


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